


Clouds Across the Moon

by carleton97



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-18
Updated: 2009-06-18
Packaged: 2017-10-13 04:09:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 34,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carleton97/pseuds/carleton97
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Bob had heard from the grapevine was that MCR's rhythm guitarist was small, hyper, and insane on the guitar. What the grapevine had obviously failed to mention was that Frank Iero was also a fucking vampire. Because normal people didn't actually believe things like vampires or werewolves or faeries or witches existed.</p><p>Normal people were, in Bob's humble opinion, complete fucking idiots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Far across the Great Sea  
1044 AD_

Bodolf was delirious with pain and fever for nearly a fortnight after the animal attack on their camp.

When the fever finally broke, he was horrified to see how badly their number had been reduced. Half of those who had been wounded in the initial attack had died before Bodolf regained his senses. Several more men had been injured hunting the wretched creatures responsible for the ambush and were steadily worsening. Though his own wounds were not yet healed, he was eager to join the hunt for the beasts that had torn through camp and left a quarter of them dead or dying.

Another few days passed and he was the only survivor left from the original wounded. Five more of the crew were lost hunting the beasts before Eigil called a halt to their efforts. They needed enough healthy men to ensure they could complete their journey home.

His own wounds were slow in healing -- most were still open, oozing just enough blood to keep them clean -- and he knew he would be little more than dead weight. The scratches -- gashes really -- on his back and legs pained him, but it was the bite on his shoulder, the way it burned and throbbed though no infection could be seen, that preyed on his mind.

The day they were to depart, the day after the moon hung fat and bright in the sky, Bodolf awoke cold and without pain for the first time in what felt like an eternity. There was a horrible taste in his mouth and when he reached for the water skin he knew should be next to his pallet, his hand encountered nothing but a cold, sticky puddle. He blinked his eyes open, squinting in the glaring sunlight for a moment before looking around and scrambling to his feet.

Everyone was dead.

Their camp was destroyed; the remnants of their lean-tos and meager larder were strewn across the ground and the broken bodies of his brothers-in-arms lay where they'd fallen in obvious battle.

And yet Bodolf lived.

His only memory of the previous night was of falling asleep well before moonrise, but here he remained -- alive, naked, and covered in blood. Bodolf tripped on something, _someone_ , as he backed away from the carnage. And when he fell to his knees, retching, the liquid gleamed dark red in the bright morning light.

***

 _East Coast  
Early February, 2003_

Bob had heard through some bizarro version of music industry telephone that My Chemical Romance was pretty strange. So the first night they joined The Used's tour as an opening act, when he finally got to meet the guys Brian had been raving about for months, he'd expected some weirdness. (And considering that he teched for The Used, that was pretty much situation normal). What he hadn't been expecting was weirdness of the spooky variety.

So he was a bit surprised, to say the least, when something supernatural started prickling along the edges of his senses as he set up for the show that night. There were several weird somethings, actually, but one in particular caught his attention and made him begin to regret listening to fucking Schechter. It wasn't another wolf -- he'd know that feeling even half dead -- and it wasn't the familiar musk and ozone smell of Brian's magic, but it was dangerous. It was age and crumbled earth covering the coppery smell of blood and the sweet scent of floral decay.

It made the hair on the back of Bob's neck stand up.

He wasn't one to go searching out trouble -- you don't get to be a thousand years old by pure _luck_ \-- but Bob firmly believed in knowing exactly who was hanging around. It tended to save a lot of hassle in the long run. Keeping that in mind, he started wandering around the outside of the shitty little club after he got the soundboard set up to his satisfaction, trying to pinpoint the source of what was bothering him.

He finally found a knot of _other_ centered around what had to be the van of Brian's new favorite band. It just fucking figured. The scent that was making him crazy was there, but it was all tangled up with something like fire and two distinct threads of ageless and green that were pretty fucking eerie too. Bob managed to pull out the one strand that interested him and follow it towards the back of the venue.

There was a guy hanging out by the back door to the club, smoking. He was the source of the supernatural feeling that had been bothering him, but Bob suddenly didn't care about the way his hackles were standing at attention. The sense of danger only added to the shouted chorus of _yesyes_ that _please_ from Bob's body.

He hadn't gotten laid in a while -- not since Quinn had unceremoniously dumped him over a month ago -- and it just figured that his stupid body would choose to remind him of it now.

Even as Bob walked closer he couldn't quite tell what the other guy was, though. Aside from sex on legs, apparently. He was small, with dark hair in messy dreads, and his foot tapped impatiently against the pavement as he smoked, giving the impression that he was in constant motion.

He stopped moving, though, when Bob was a few yards away and just stared at him through the haze of his cigarette smoke. There was something so very obviously preternatural about his stillness that it made Bob slow his approach and actually jerk back a step in visceral reaction as he realized this guy was a fucking _vampire_.

The little zing of attraction that had been racing through him retreated with a whimper as Bob froze in place, his mind actually blanking out for a second. What the _fuck_ was Brian doing hanging around one of these undead bastards?

The guy -- the vampire -- stared at him silently for a moment that seemed to stretch out endlessly, his eyes reflecting silver in the flickering light bulb over the club's back door. After that one involuntary step back, Bob kept carefully still. Vampires were solitary predators rather than pack predators like wolves, and a single vampire could be an incredibly dangerous thing for a lone wolf to run into.

The vampire kept his eyes locked with Bob's as he slowly brought his cigarette up to his mouth for another drag. Bob's hands flexed by his sides as he weighed his options: shift into wolf form and go for an all-out attack, shift into wolf form and run like hell for Brian --

Bob jumped, startled, at a sudden noise from the vampire's direction. It took him a moment to figure out what the hell it was, because it was so unexpected. The vampire was laughing.

"You look like someone threatened to neuter you, Fido." The vampire breathed out a smoke ring and gave him an insolent once-over. "Any designs I have on you don't involve knives."

Bob stopped himself from growling, but just barely. He'd only tangled with a vampire once, back in the 1500s he thought, and that bloodsucking fucker had killed three of the pack before they'd managed to tear her apart.

He'd steered clear since then.

Smiling widely, the vampire held out his hand.  "Hey, I'm Frank Iero.  I'm with My Chemical Romance."  He continued holding out his hand for a few moments, his smile fading as Bob made no move to shake his hand.

What Bob had heard from the grapevine was that MCR's rhythm guitarist was small, hyper, and insane on the guitar. What the grapevine had obviously failed to mention was that Frank Iero was also a fucking vampire. Because normal people didn't actually believe things like vampires or werewolves or faeries or witches existed.

Normal people were, in Bob's humble opinion, complete fucking idiots.

Bob held still as the vampire -- Frank -- dropped his smoke and ground it out with the toe of his tattered shoe. The pavement behind the venue was littered with cigarette butts and broken beer bottles. It was obviously a popular place to hang out but they had it to themselves right now, and it was private that they could talk about supernatural shit without worrying about being overheard by normals.

Holding his arms out to the side in the universal gesture for "I'm harmless," the vampire said, "You can stop pissing yourself, dude. I'm a vegan."

"A vegan... _vampire_?" Bob asked. "How the fuck does that work?"

"Simple," Frank said, smiling widely without showing the slightest hint of fang. "I don't drink blood."

"You don't drink blood. Really," Bob said, not believing him for a second.

"Yeah, really." Frank tapped another couple of cigarettes out of his battered pack of Marlboros, offering one to Bob. Bob just looked at him. Frank snorted quietly. "Suit yourself," he said, tucking the rejected cigarette behind his ear before lighting one for himself.

Bob desperately wanted a smoke but didn't want to distract himself from the predator in front of him, no matter how harmless he looked or how _vegan_ he claimed to be. Seriously, what the fuck? "Vegan? Really?"

"Yep."

"A vegan vampire," Bob cocked his head to the side, genuinely curious. "What the hell do you eat?"

"Don't ask." Frank took a deep drag off his cigarette.

"No, seriously. I gotta know."

"Tofu smoothies with spinach and pureed chickpeas." He laughed at the look he was getting from Bob. "Hey, don't make that face; you asked. Sometimes I throw some pickled beets in there for color."

Bob was about to call bullshit on the whole thing because, seriously, _chickpeas?_ , when Brian poked his head out of the door, calling, "Iero, get your ass in here."

"Brian--" Bob wasn't quite sure what to make of Brian's nonchalant acceptance. He knew Brian _had to know_ exactly what sort of creature Frank was.

"It's about fucking time, Bryar. What, you need an engraved invitation to show up to work now?"

"Nice meeting you, Bryar," Frank said, pausing before walking through the backstage door.

"It's Bob, Bob Bryar," Bob said automatically, and then felt like an idiot. What, was he introducing himself to _vampires_ now?

"See you around, Bob, Bob Bryar." Frank's giggle was surprisingly high-pitched and goofy-sounding for a dangerous creature of the night.

Brian waited until Frank was out of earshot before saying calmly, "So, you met Frank. Glad to see there wasn't any bloodshed."

Bob knew better, he honestly did, but he couldn't stop himself from grabbing Brian's arm and pulling him outside, growling, "What the fuck is wrong with you, Schechter? He's a _vampire._ "

"I'm not an idiot, Bob." Brian looked at the hand on his arm until Bob dropped his hold. "I know he's a vampire, but I also know he hasn't fed from a human being in hundreds of years."

Bob made a scoffing noise, then jumped when Brian sent an electric blue shock through him. "Ouch, fucker!"

"Serves you right. Seriously, have you ever known me to be naive and trusting? Do I tend to believe anyone -- about _anything_ \-- without any fucking proof?"

Bob sighed. "No."

"No. Because I'm a paranoid control-freak bastard, as you've told me more than a few times. So when I say that he really is not dangerous -- _at all_ \-- you know that I'm not just buying some line of happy bullshit."

"But that's--" Bob was having a hard time fathoming that kind of self-control. "How?"

Brian shrugged. "I don't really care as long as he keeps doing it. We can't have fucking corpses following us around the country, no matter what Bert says."

"I'm having a hard time with this." Bob wondered if the unthinking adrenalin response at the thought of a vampire was hardwired into him.

"Eh, you'll get used to it." Brian pulled out his Blackberry. "Are we done here? Can we get to work now?"

"What's the deal with My Chem, anyway? I swear I smelled at least two, maybe three other supernaturals."

Phone already held to his ear, Brian snorted, saying, "It's nothing to worry your pretty little head about -- Cortez! Are call times _optional_ now?" He disappeared through the stage door, yelling into his phone. Bob wasn't too worried about it -- Brian yelling at Cortez was just a fact of life, and rarely meant anything serious.

Bob checked his watch. He had just about enough time to smoke another cigarette before soundcheck. Or maybe two, if he was quick about it.

If he focused, he could hear the heartbeats of almost everyone inside the stage area. It was a hunting thing -- made it easier to track prey as a werewolf. Bob found himself straining to hear Frank's almost-nonexistent heartbeat.

He was turned away from the stage door, sheltering his Zippo flame from the wind, when the door opened again. "Yeah, hold your horses, Schechter, I'll be there in a sec," Bob said without turning around.

"Still jumping to your master's whims, Robert?"

Bob flinched, Quinn's presence slamming into him without warning. He hadn't realized he'd been tracking Frank's progress through the club quite so closely. "What do you want, Quinn?"

"From you? Nothing." Quinn lit his own smoke and leaned against the wall next to Bob, angling his hips at just the right angle to drive Bob crazy.

As Quinn well knew.

"Yeah, you've made that more than clear," Bob mumbled, smoking his cigarette as quickly as possible so that he could get the hell out of here. Quinn's scent, the sound of his voice, the cut of his hips above the low-slung waist of his jeans -- it was all too much, rubbing Bob raw in places that hadn't had a chance to heal yet.

"Please. Don't act like we had something special. I saw you talking to that little guitarist." Quinn blew a stream of bluish smoke in Bob's face. "You're aiming for the talent again, Bob?"

"I'm not aiming for anything." Bob ground out his cigarette on the side of the building, just wanting to get away from what was shaping up to be a re-enactment of the quietly vicious way Quinn had dumped him.

Once was enough for that scene, thanks.

The door swung open again. Jepha leaned out of the doorway, his eyes widening at the sight of Bob and Quinn talking together. "Hey, Bob, Schechter was looking for you."

Bob nodded. "Thanks, man."

Quinn snorted dismissively. "Or are we aiming for management, this time?" he asked, his voice poisonously sweet.

Jepha met Bob's eyes sympathetically, but he didn't say anything. In this, as in everything, Jepha was officially Switzerland.

Bob brushed past Quinn silently. He wasn't sure how things had gone to shit between them so quickly or why Quinn had turned on him out of the blue. All he knew was that this was the last time he'd be stupid enough to get involved with the talent.

***

"Bob."

Bob jerked at the sound of Brian's voice, smacking his head on the underside of the shitty soundboard. He growled under his breath, "Fucking _what_ , Schechter?"

"Come out from under there and meet the rest of the band, assface."

He sighed and started backing out from the dank space, realizing just how gross it was down there when the combined scents of My Chemical Romance hit him like a sledgehammer as he got halfway out from under the board. He scrambled to his feet, not wanting to have his back to either a vampire -- no matter how safe Brian claimed he was -- or whatever the hell the other three were. He rolled his shoulders when he stood up, then bit down a smirk when the biggest two guys in the group, a curly-haired guy who smelled like fire and a dark-haired guy who smelled entirely human, took a half step back.

"What's up?" Bob asked, dusting his hands off.

"Guys, I'd like you to meet Bob Bryar, sound genius." Brian pointed at each of the members of the band as he added, "Bob, this is Gerard and Mikey Way, Ray Toro, and Matt Pelissier. You met Frank Iero outside."

Bob wasn't surprised when no one moved to shake his hand and he only got mumbled acknowledgments from all of them. He was busy placing scents with names: the curly-haired guy who smelled like fire was Toro, the human guy was Pellissier, and the two Ways were the origin of the ageless, green scent.

Brian crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the band until the Ways started to look uncomfortable.  Sighing and rolling his eyes, Brian said, "So, let's all go to the IHOP. I want some pancakes."

Bob finished coiling up the last of the cords and dropped them into his crate, knowing Brian was going to get his way no matter who he had to bully into it.  Bob wondered, though, why Brian was even bothering with bringing Pelissier along, since he was pretty sure Pelissier was one hundred percent mundane and didn't have the first clue about any sort of supernatural shit. 

Bob saw Brian tapping out a five-count on his outside arm and, as if on cue, when he hit five, Pelissier snorted and said, "Fuck that IHOP shit. There's a table of barely legal ass that's been eyeing me since the second song. I'll see you at van call."

The rest of the band didn't look at all disappointed that Pelissier was taking off on his own. Bob had barely even met them and he could feel the tension between the rest of MCR and their drummer.

"Fuck yeah, pancakes sound awesome," Gerard said with the enthusiasm of the completely blitzed. Mikey shifted and mumbled something indistinct. Frank was scowling, but Bob wasn't sure if that was because of IHOP or Bob's presence.

Riding in MCR's shitty and extremely stinky van, by the time they got to IHOP Bob's nerves were singing with tension. He wasn't thrilled about sharing a vehicle with a vampire and three unidentified supernaturals, but the only other option was pissing off Brian and that was just more trouble than it was worth.

Enough time had passed since the end of the show that most of the kids had cleared out of the IHOP and the waitress was able to seat the six of them right away. Bob didn't even have to look at the menu to know that he wanted. "Steak and eggs, rare and over-easy. And I'm serious when I say I want my steak rare. Like, five seconds on each side. I'll sign a damn waiver or something."

Brian, Ray, and Gerard got the pancakes and Mikey took five minutes to order a ham and cheese omelet with a side of french fries. Bob just rolled his eyes when Frank ordered a pot of coffee, but the others didn't even blink so maybe he wasn't completely full of shit.

Maybe.

Gerard also ordered a pot of coffee of his own. The waitress tried to convince him that he could share Frank's pot, "Since they're bottomless, hon," but he seemed sure that just wouldn't be enough coffee for both of them. There seemed to be some sort of unspoken agreement that they wouldn't talk about anything bizarre until they all had their food and the interruptions would be mostly done.

Gerard was in the middle of a long-winded story about some comics shit (Bob had tuned out after the words "Justice League") when the waitress came back to the table loaded down with full plates. With the exceptions of Frank, who had ordered only coffee, and Mikey, who might actually be the slowest, pickiest eater Bob had ever met, the rest of them tore into their food with the enthusiasm and table manners of a pack of starving wolves. And Bob knew from starving wolves.

Bob looked up from shoveling bloody, dripping steak into his mouth to see Frank staring at him with a strange look on his face. Frank met his eyes for a split second and the jolt of _attractionlustwant_ hit him again, but Bob shoved it back down. As if Frank being a vampire wasn't bad enough, as Quinn had reminded him, getting involved with the talent was _always_ a mistake. Frank looked away, studiously ignoring him as he started teasing Ray about some inside joke that effectively excluded Bob from the conversation. _Jesus, he was an obnoxious little fucker_ , Bob thought.

Sick of thinking about the rude, pissy blood-sucker, Bob turned his attention to the rest of the band. Gerard was drunk. And still talking about comics. And talking, and talking, and talking. Jesus, Bob didn't know anyone who could talk about comics like that. He thought maybe Gerard was making up for the fact that his brother didn't seem to say anything at all. He studied them both for a second and decided that he'd have a hard time believing there was anything supernatural about the Way brothers if it weren't for the evidence of his own nose, and even that was a bit of a struggle because holy _fuck_ those two could produce some reek. He wondered if it might be some sort of attempt to camouflage their scent by sheer stink. If it was, he commended their efforts and planned to sit upwind of them as much as possible.

Now that he'd been around them for a while, a connection clicked in his head -- they smelled kind of like a forest spirit he'd run into in the wilds of what was now Maine, sometime in the 1700s. It wasn't quite the same scent, but it was close. Though he'd bet his car that the closest Gerard and Mikey Way had ever been to a forest was a city park in New Jersey.

Mostly satisfied by his diagnosis of "fae of some sort," Bob turned his attention to Toro. He couldn't quite figure out Toro -- he was sort of foresty, but sharp like fire. Bob thought "dragon," but that wasn't quite right either.

Ray paused in the middle of a long story about something -- the comparative quality of laundromats in New York versus New Jersey, Bob thought -- and laughed this high-pitched, uncomfortable giggle. "I'm sorry, I'm just babbling now, aren't I? You can tell me to shut up every once in a while, seriously, I don't mind."

Bob shrugged, "Don't worry about it."

"So, Bob," Ray said, sounding weirdly like he was introducing himself at a cocktail party or something, "Where are you from? You don't sound like Jersey."

"Originally?" Bob laughed. "I was born just outside what became Helsingborg. In the Year of Our Lord 1011."

Ray was the only one of them who looked surprised. Mikey didn't even twitch and Gerard looked interested, leaning forward as if to ask a question.  He was interrupted by Frank's scoffing laugh, "1011? Whatever. Next you're going to tell us you were a Viking or something."

"Yeah, actually, I was." Bob did not snarl at him, but smiled pleasantly, making sure it showed off his sharp canines.

"Oh sure, and I was the Emperor of Rome." Frank sat back in his chair, obviously dismissing Bob.

Bob pushed his plate aside. Clearing his throat, he let his voice drop back into its native rhythm as he started his tale. "We set off from Göteborg with a crew of forty as soon as the ice was gone. We had planned to resupply in Iceland before heading further west, but a storm pushed us off course. Ten of us were lost to sickness before we even spotted land. A week after we made landfall to try to forage for food, we were attacked in the night. Nine of us were wounded and within two weeks, I was the only survivor of those. At first the others tried to find the beasts that attacked, but after more men were lost to them, we decided to return home while we had men enough to make it.

The morning we were supposed to leave, I woke up completely healed. And everyone else was dead."

Brian was calmly drinking his coffee; he knew this story already. Frank was scowling, Ray looked kind of horrified, Mikey looked neutral, and Gerard was leaning forward again, completely enthralled. When Bob sat back in his chair, Gerard breathed out, "Oh, wow. That is fucking intense. Would you mind if I drew that sometime?"

Bob blinked, "Uh, sure, I guess."

"Awesome!"

"Where were you?" It was the first time Mikey had spoken directly to him.

"The northern tip of Newfoundland."

"Cool." And then Mikey was done, back to poking at his half-eaten omelet.

It was about as far from 'cool' as Bob could imagine. He didn't like to think about the beginning, of the loneliness and guilt that were his only companions for decades as he wandered his new home. He shrugged, "Yeah."

"I have a question.  You said that you woke up healed, and everyone else was dead," Frank said, tapping his finger against his chin thoughtfully.  "So... did you eat them?"

"Frank!" Ray protested.

"No, it's a fair question."  Bob met Frank's eyes squarely.  "It takes a long time for a new werewolf to gain control over the Change, especially if he's alone.  So, yes, I did kill and eat my friends and traveling companions.  And I feel guilt for that to this very day."

"And yet you seem to think that being a vampire makes me some kind of--" Frank paused dramatically.  "Monster."

Bob ground his teeth.  "Yes, but I don't need to _eat humans_ to survive."

"Hey, guess what?  Neither do I," Frank said, toasting Bob with his coffee cup.

There was a brief, strained silence.  
   
"So, Bob, how did you end up in sound engineering?" Ray asked.

Jesus, this felt like meeting someone's parents for the first time. Bob wished he could smoke in here. "There wasn't much call for blacksmiths anymore, really, once the automobile caught on. I've always liked music, and it seemed like something that would be interesting to do, you know?"

Gerard nodded enthusiastically. He was still pretty hammered as far as Bob could tell. "Totally, yeah. You've got to go with your dreams, no matter what. Even if it gets you thrown out of--" He stopped with a quiet, "Ow."

Bob was fairly certain Mikey had just kicked Gerard under the table.

"Alright, kids, it's time to pack it in for the night." Brian threw a handful of bills on top of the check and poked at Gerard until he staggered to his feet.

"We driving tonight?" Ray stretched up towards the ceiling.

"As soon as one of you fuckers tracks down Otter," Brian gave Frank a pointed look.

Frank made a gagging noise and stuck his tongue out at Brian, who completely ignored him with what was obviously the ease of long practice. "Bob, you're welcome to ride with us if The Used's bus has already headed out."

"Thanks, but," Bob's phone buzzed and he flipped it open to read Jepha's short, criminally misspelled text message, "looks like I've got just enough time to get back to the bus before they take off."

When they got back to the venue, the only one of them who didn't see him off with a backslap or a 'nice to meet you' was Frank.  Whatever the fuck was Iero's problem, Bob didn't give a shit. As long as he could be professional, that was all that mattered.

He was pretty sure that he and Frank were just never going to get along.

***

 _East Coast  
Mid-April, 2003_

Bob tried not to lie to himself about most things. It only made things more complicated in the long run, he'd found. After all, there were only so many times you could puke up half-digested woodland creatures the morning after the full moon while still maintaining there was nothing wrong with you.

(The answer to that, by the way, was two times.)

So when he told Brian he wasn't worried about Frank, Bob was _absolutely_ telling the truth. As he saw it.

Besides, there was no real reason to be worried. Frank was a _vampire_. The sniffles weren't going to kill him even if he had spent the past few days lying around the van looking all weak and listless. And he absolutely did not _miss_ the little undead shit, either. So what if when Frank forgot to be a total dick to Bob he was tiny bundle of fun and pranking? Just because he had awesome ideas for practical jokes, which was not what Bob really expected out of a vampire, did not mean Bob was getting _fond_ of Frank.

At all.

He was just... empathizing with the others as they hovered and worried and generally acted like a bunch of old grannies instead of a pair of outlaw Unseelie princes and a Jersey Devil (and wasn't finding that out a kick in the pants for Bob). He was willing to admit the tiniest bit of concern, though, when even Otter didn't complain at Frank spending three days stretched out flat in the much-coveted back seat of the van, sounding like he was going to cough up a lung.

"How the hell can a vampire even catch a cold?" Bob finally broke and asked Frank when he was left in charge of watching over him so the others could grab some lunch. "Aren't you technically undead?"

Frank gave him the finger and hauled himself forward enough to collapse in Bob's lap, his face pale and clammy with sweat as he managed to wheeze, "That undead stuff is bullshit. I'm not fucking dead. My heart still beats, just... really, really slowly."

And that was true. If Bob concentrated, he could catch the flutter of Frank's heart every so often. And now that he was pretty sure Frank wasn't going to eat him -- 60% sure, at least -- Bob found himself endlessly fascinated by him. Vampires were pretty much the only Other he'd encountered that he'd never had much of a chance to talk to, what with the fangs and biting and killing.

"But still--"

"Oh, my God. Shut the fuck up and let me _sleep_." Frank threw a wad of snot-soaked napkins at his head and flipped over onto his stomach, burying his face in Bob's hoodie.

It was hard for Bob to take offense, even with the disgusting napkins, when Frank sounded so miserable. Now that he'd spent enough time around him, Bob had started to pick up on the way his scent changed at various times. When he was hungry, he smelled sharper, like rusty iron. Bob could smell that rusty scent right now, underneath the stale overlay of sickness, and he was pretty sure there were some of Frank's gross vegan shakes in the cooler.

"Hey, do you want me to grab you a--"

"Seriously, Bob, I will give you a whole five dollars if you let me sleep until soundcheck," Frank groaned.

Bob sighed, annoyed now as there was nothing he hated more than being shushed, and slid out from under Frank. He opened the van door, calling over his shoulder, "Yeah, whatever."

Ray was sitting on one of the cement blocks at the edge of the parking lot, idly strumming on a guitar and staring at the scrubby trees in the distance. Bob dropped down next to him and kicked up a little cloud of dust. "What up, Toro?"

"Just thinking. Worrying about Frank a little. Working on a song."

Bob made an affirmative noise and tried to get comfortable on the hard seat. "Does he get sick a lot?"

"What's a lot?" Ray shrugged, "It's just that his diet is... a little lacking, you know?"

"Huh." Now that he thought about it, it made sense that Frank's gross vegan shakes wouldn't have everything that a vampire needed to stay healthy. Like blood. "Has he always been... like that?"

"A sickly little anarchist vegan punk vampire?" Ray rattled off. "Yeah, as long as I've known him, anyway. And I knew him before any of the others did, don't let Gerard tell you any lies. We jammed together a couple of times, before the band."

"He was in that other band, right? With the ties and--"

"Pencey Prep, yeah. They just sort of... stopped. Fucking lucky for us, 'cause -- Holy shit, Bob!"

Bob had moved before he'd even realized it, snapping his hand out and snagging a rabbit that had obviously become accustomed to humans from living in such close quarters to the ruckus of the club. Even so, Bob would never have caught the rabbit so easily if they hadn't been downwind of it.  Most prey animals stayed the hell away from Bob and he thought it was probably the same for Ray.

The little thing was frozen against his chest, its heart jackhammering with terror at being restrained by what was obviously, from its perspective, a giant predator. Without thinking about what he was doing, Bob stood up and headed for the van.

He couldn't even explain it later, except to say that his wolf instincts must have gotten the better of him. At the time, it seemed completely logical to Bob that he should bring the rabbit to Frank. Frank was hungry but too sick to hunt for himself. Bob was hunting for him, which was only natural to do for your packmate.

Which was another thing Bob was going to have to give himself a stern talking-to about.

It was only when Bob was holding out the rabbit to a white-faced, horrified-looking Frank that he snapped out of it enough to realize that _hey, this might not have been the best of ideas_.

"Um. It's still alive?" Bob said tentatively.

"Oh, is that a bunny?" Gerard popped up at Bob's shoulder, scaring the shit out of him because, for real, he didn't even smell him coming. He hated it when Gerard did that. Gerard reached out and started to pet its head, apparently oblivious to the fact that the little thing was petrified. "It's so soft!"

Frank's voice was clogged with phlegm, but he still managed a credible snarl. "What the fucking _fuck_ , Bob?"

That got Bob's back up.  "Oh come on! Do you know how hard it is for a werewolf to capture a rabbit without eating it or mauling it?"

Gerard's hand froze on the rabbit's head as he finally realized something was going on. "Frank?"

Frank pulled a hoodie from the floor of the van over his face, groaning, "Just get it out of here before its heart gives out. Jesus Christ."

"Seriously, just eat the goddamned thing," Bob growled. "It's not like it's a human--"

"Shut the fuck up!" Frank yelled, throwing the hoodie at Bob's head with supernatural accuracy. "Just -- get it out of here, fuck, it's about to have a fucking heart attack, just _go_!"

Bob backed out of the van, followed by Gerard, who gently closed the door behind them.

Bob stood outside the van, the rabbit still lying frozen in his hands, feeling like everyone was staring at him. "That... really didn't go the way I expected it to," he told the rabbit. It blinked at him.

Kneeling on the asphalt, Bob let the rabbit go. It stared at him nervously for a few seconds and then shot off across the parking lot as fast as its little legs could carry it.

"Dude," Gerard said seriously, sounding almost sober for once, "that was way out of line."

Bob turned his head towards Gerard but kept his eyes on the retreating bunny. "What?"

"Why did you do that? You know how he feels about drinking blood."

The thing was, Bob didn't know, exactly. Things had settled between him and Frank in the past couple of weeks, but they weren't exactly sharing deep, dark secrets. He knew Frank didn't drink from humans, but that was about the extent of his knowledge.

Bob shrugged. "I know he stays away from humans--"

"No, you don't get it," Gerard interrupted. "Frank doesn't drink blood. At all. Ever."

Bob stared at Gerard. He'd just assumed that, all talk of being vegan aside, Frank totally cheated with animal blood. "You're kidding, right? That's impossible. He'd _die_."

Gerard rubbed at his forehead, sighing. Usually, the only sign that Gerard wasn't exactly what he appeared to be was the way he smelled to Bob, but at that moment the booze and the hard-partying bleariness seemed to slide off him, leaving something old and unearthly in its place. "You're not entirely wrong about that. He's starving himself, every single day, and it has almost killed him, more than once. He's not ever going to be as strong as he would be if he drank human blood, or even animal blood."

Bob reeled back, a little stunned. "Well, what the fuck? Why the fuck would he do that to himself?"

Gerard looked all set to answer when Ray cleared his throat pointedly and said, "Not yours to share, Gerard."

Gerard sank back into himself, the impression of _other_ around him fading until he was just bloated and hungover Gerard again. "Right. Right."

"But, wait," Bob's head was spinning. "He's not dying, right? Not, like, actively?"

Ray shrugged, looking a little uneasy. "No, he's okay. He's just... weaker than he would be."

Bob was about to grill Gerard and Ray a little more -- because seriously, starving himself? What the fuck? But then Bert came running up out of nowhere, naked and giggling maniacally, and full-body tackled Gerard to the ground. Bob helped wrestle Bert off Gerard, who was flailing helplessly like a turtle that had been flipped on its back. 

Unfortunately, it turned out that Quinn was on Bert-watching duty that day.  And between rescuing Gerard, finding Bert's clothing, and avoiding the _fuck_ out of Quinn, it was past soundcheck by the time Bob had a moment to think about it again.

Gerard was just being a drama queen, as usual, Bob told himself. Frank clearly wasn't in any real danger of  dying. He was a vampire, after all -- if there was anything vampires were good at, it was surviving.

***

There were few things in life that Bob hated more than apologizing, particularly when he was actually in the wrong. Still, the reproachful looks from Gerard and Brian's less-than-subtle threats eventually wore him down, and two days after what Bob had privately dubbed "The Bunny Incident," he hunted down Frank to apologize for being an ass. Not that he'd deliberately been an ass, and even now he didn't think that he'd _entirely_ been in the wrong, but still. Bob was man enough to admit that he probably needed to apologize.

Plus, Frank wasn't talking to him, and Bob had (against his will) become kind of fond of the little shit.

Frank was wily and determined to keep him away, but Bob was a predator. He was a little out of practice, but cutting Frank out of the MCR herd was pretty easy.

It helped that Frank had been unable to resist the lure of decent showers at the venue. And with the exception of Ray, who showered in about three minutes flat, the rest of his band seemed pretty ambivalent about the presence of hot, running water.

Despite their desperate need for a good scrubbing.

The running water covered the sound of Bob's approach, so he was able to get close enough to touch for the first time in days. He knew better than to poke him without warning, though. "Frank."

Frank jumped and sputtered, blinking water out of his eyes. "What the -- Oh. It's you."

"Yup." Bob crossed his arms and almost leaned back against the tiled wall of the shower room, then registered the level of grime and mildew on the tiles and thought better of it.

"Shower time is private time, Bob. Didn't they teach you that at obedience school?" Turning his back on Bob, Frank poured liquid soap into the palm of his hand and lathered his chest up.

Bob sighed. Naturally Frank wasn't going to make this easy for him. "Naw, they were too busy trying to make sure we didn't piss on the furniture."

Soaping up his pits, Frank snickered. "Maybe we should send Bert to obedience school."

"Might help." Bob chewed at his lip ring for a second, then said, "Listen, I wanted to apologize for the other day."

"Oh, really?" Frank huffed and blew a snot rocket towards the drain before sticking his face into the shower spray and rubbing at his eyes.

"I'm sorry about the bunny, okay? I wasn't trying to -- I just didn't think." Bob shuffled his feet, kicking at the foamy swirl on the tile.

"You didn't think?" Frank stepped out of the spray, facing him with his arms crossed. Bob tried and failed to stop his eyes from trailing down Frank's chest (surprisingly broad for his height) to the treasure trail that started just under his belly-button and widened to frame a cock that Bob was willing to bet was nicely-sized when it was hard. Bob's eyes snapped back up to Frank's face as he felt himself flush guiltily. "Bob, I'm a fucking _vegan_. What part of that made you think it was okay to bring me a rabbit?"

"I said I wasn't thinking! You were sick and the rabbit was just there." Bob threw his hands up in a _what do you want from me?_ gesture. "Besides, it's not like I killed it or anything!"

Frank scowled. The water dripping into his eyes from his short, white-boy dreads made it hard for Bob to take his threatening look seriously. "You better not have eaten it afterwards, either, motherfucker."

Bob rolled his eyes. "I swear to god, I didn't eat the bunny. I think Gerard would have cried if I had, anyway."

Frank dropped his head, but Bob knew he was trying to hide a smile. "That soft motherfucker probably would cry."

"I really am sorry." It was easier to say it every time. "It just sort of happened."

Frank waved him off. "Just don't let it happen again."

The shock of relief that went through Bob surprised him. He hadn't realized how wound up the entire situation had made him. He smiled helplessly at Frank and could feel his stupid cheeks turning pink. He had never been so thankful for industrial-sized hot water tanks in his _life_.

"So are you just gonna stand there perving on me or are you gonna get naked?"

Bob gaped at him for a second before his brain caught up with the conversation. Of course Frank wasn't propositioning him -- he was asking if Bob wanted to take a shower, that's all. Jesus. Bob shook his head a little, wondering when the hell his body was going to get the memo re: Iero, Frank -- dangerous creature, and said, "Actually, no, I gotta help with unloading right now. Later, though, definitely."

Frank winked at him, making a kissy face. "I'll take a rain check on that."

Frank absolutely was not flirting with him. Frank was just being his usual obnoxious self. And it wouldn't matter even if he was because he was in the fucking band. He was strictly off-limits. Reassured, Bob grabbed a relatively clean-looking towel off the floor and snapped it at Frank's ass. "Rain check, my ass."

"Hey, watch the goods, asshole!" Frank danced back to avoid the snap and threw a handful of water at Bob. "Go do your fucking job or something."

Bob slung the towel over the other showerhead and wiped his face on the arm of his hoodie, since it was cleaner than that musty towel, at least. "Yeah, yeah, you're the talent, I know."

"That's right, baby." Frank smacked his own ass and did some sort of shimmy. His foot slipped out from under him on the slick tile and Bob nearly died trying to grab him before he brained himself on the floor.

"God, you're a menace." He set Frank back on his feet and jumped out of the way of the indirect spray. "Don't die in here, okay?"

Frank ducked under the water one last time before turning it off and grabbing the clean towel he had tossed on top of his clothes in the corner. "I'm good to go, Bobby."

"Don't call me 'Bobby,' asshole." Bob flipped him off before heading out to finish packing up his equipment.

***

 _East Coast  
Late April, 2003_

"God, I do not know how you can drink that shit." Bob felt his stomach turn at the smell of Frank's shake thing.

Frank tilted the plastic cup of pale greenish-brown liquid back and gulped it down, smacking his lips with a loud "ah" when he was done. "What're you talking about? It's delish," he said, punctuating the statement with a loud burp.

"Ugh, it smells like _ass_." It was almost enough to put Bob off his hamburger, but not quite. Truthfully, there wasn't a lot that could get between Bob and his love of bloody red meat.

"It smells like flowers and sunshine, jackass." Frank licked the inside of the cup, then licked the side of Bob's face with his ass-smelling tongue.

"Oh, you fucking _fucker_!" Bob carefully set his burger aside before planting a shoulder in Frank's stomach, grabbing Frank around the thighs, and stepping back from the picnic table. He spun around until Frank was moaning and kicking weakly at him.

"Stop, Bob, I'm going to puke!"

Bob let him slide to the ground, head-first. Frank curled up in a ball on the ground, moaning theatrically.

Brian barely looked up from his salad (salad! what kind of rock stars were they?), saying mildly, "If you break my rhythm guitarist, Bryar, I will end you."

Coming from Brian, that threat actually held some weight. Bob crouched next to Frank, hand hovering uncertainly over where Frank's hands were clutching his stomach. "Seriously, Iero, are you okay?"

Frank rolled onto his back, a little greenish, but grinning. "You are giant marshmallow, Bryar! I'm going to tell the entire world and you will be forced to give piggyback rides and play horsey and wash cars and--"

Bob rolled his eyes and pushed to his feet, dragging Frank up with him. "Sit down and drink another one of your ass shakes."

Frank stumbled back to the bench and pulled out another cup of his shake out of the cooler, stirring it with his finger before flicking it at Bob and taking a big drink. "Yummy!"

"Blech." Bob wrinkled his nose at the spots of nasty on his hoodie and took another bite of his barely cooked burger.

"You know that was mooing peacefully about 24 hours ago, don't you?"

What the -- was Frank seriously trying to _guilt_ him about his food? Bob shook his head, saying smugly, "Yeah, it's fucking choice. I'm just sad I didn't get to take it down myself."

Clutching a travel mug of coffee, Gerard shuffled up to the picnic table just in time to hear Bob say that. Squinting in the late afternoon sunshine, Gerard asked in a rusty, just-woke-up voice, "You hunt cows?"

Bob shrugged. "Not often, but yeah. Tends to get you shot at by farmers if you're not careful. I'm a lot more likely to take down deer or elk. Rabbits, too, sometimes."

"Dude. Enough with the bunnies." Frank was glaring at him.

Bob spread his hands out, protesting, "Oh, come on, they're nature's meals-on-wheels!"

"Bob, really," Gerard's reproachful look was a thing to behold. "Nature's meals-on-wheels?"

"You're right." Bob finished off his burger and stole a crouton from Brian's salad. "They're not even meal sized. They're more of a snack. Nature's M&M's, maybe."

Gerard looked horrified but started laughing anyway. "Oh man -- does that make them the peanut M&M's?"

Bob pretended to ponder that question seriously. "Well, they are kinda crunchy, but maybe closer to the peanut butter ones -- all gooey on the inside."

Frank growled and threw the mostly-empty cup of his shake down on the picnic table, stomping away without a word to either one of them. Bob stared after him for a moment, then looked back at Gerard and Brian. Gerard blinked at him vaguely and scratched his head, yawning. No help whatsoever. Brian glared at Bob with an expression Bob was used to seeing when things got fucked up at a show. That was definitely the "Fix it, motherfucker," look.

Bob sighed. Figured that he'd end up saddled with the only vampire on the planet whose feelings could get hurt over _bunnies_.

He thought about just letting Frank sulk until he got over it -- seriously, he'd _just_ apologized -- but he was pretty sure that Brian would kill him way before Frank gave in on this. Bob heaved a big sigh and pushed himself off the bench, jogging after Frank. "Hey!"

It wasn't like Frank couldn't hear him -- he was only a few yards away -- but he didn't even bother to slow down. God, he was a pissy little undead bitch.

Bob growled, not really bothering to keep it under his breath, and saw the nearly imperceptible break in Frank's stride. Good, hopefully he was getting nervous about having his back turned on a much larger predator. Bob didn't use his size much -- he thought it was a dick move most of the time -- but sometimes it was just really fucking satisfying being able to loom over people.

"Iero! Hey!" Bob was just about to say fuck it, Frank could fucking stew in his own juices for all he cared, when Frank stopped suddenly and whirled around on him.

His hands curled into fists, Frank snarled, "Do I fucking tease you about pooper scoopers or rabies shots or how any girl you date must be a _real_ bitch? No! So stop fucking ragging on me about the blood drinking."

"Actually, yeah, you used that line about pooper scoopers like twice last week." Whoops, he was supposed to be apologizing, wasn't he? Fuck it.

"I did?" Frank paused for a second, the wind going out of his sails. "Well, it was kind of funny."

Bob just raised his eyebrows and didn't smile when Frank slumped a little more.

"Well, shit."

There was something about the truly mournful tone of his voice that made Bob shift uncomfortably. "Look, I'm not trying to be a dick about it, okay?"

Frank shook the tension out of his arms and ignored Bob's admission. He cracked his neck and said, "If you don't stop talking about dick around me, I'm going to get the wrong idea."

Bob snorted. "Right, Iero. You keep dreaming." Bob was very careful not to think about Frank and dick -- his own or Bob's -- in any combination. Down that path lay madness.

Frank widened his eyes dramatically. "Bobert Bryar of the clan MacBryar! Are you saying you're not planning on sweeping me off my feet like a big muscle-y barbarian warrior? I'm crushed."

Bob rolled his eyes. "Viking, not barbarian, or Scotsman for that matter. Get it right."

"Hey, wait! Bob's not a Viking name, is it? Did you have a Viking name? Like Wulfgar or something? I bet it was Wulf-Bob," Frank said gleefully.

"Wulf-Bob? Really? Is that the best you can do?" Bob ducked his head to hide his smile. It was _stupid_ to be fucking charmed by bullshit like that.

"Dude, you are lucky I didn't call you 'Hagar.'" Frank jumped up, hooking his legs around Bob's waist and his arms around his neck, "What's your real name, Bob?"

Bob shifted Frank around until he was settled on his back. "Nope."

"Boooooooooooooooooooooooooo--" Frank paused to suck in a deeper breath, " -- ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooob! Tell me! Teeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeell meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee--"

"Jesus fuck! Okay!" Bob had, perhaps, not considered what Frank's whine would sound like a half an inch from his ear. "Bodolf. My name was Bodolf."

"Bodolf. Cool." Frank stuck a hand in front of Bob's face. "Francesco de Folchiero. Nice to meet ya."

"Likewise." Bob shifted one hand from supporting Frank's weight and bent his arm awkwardly to try to shake his hand. Frank started to slide sideways without Bob's support and Bob quickly overbalanced. The two of them slid to the ground in a heap, Bob on top.

"Hey, get off me! Heavy motherfucker," Frank grumbled.

Bob snickered, not moving. "Hey, just because you're the size of a teacup chihuahua..."

Apparently, those were fighting words in Ieroland, because Frank was suddenly a whirlwind of elbows and knees beneath him. Bob would have been worried if the little bastard hadn't been laughing like a hyena the entire time. It'd been a very long time since Bob had scuffled with a packmate, but suddenly it seemed like just what he needed.

There were other people milling around so they couldn't exactly go crazy, but he was pretty sure they were both old enough to know exactly how far they could go in public. He growled a little bit and tried to catch one of Frank's flailing hands in his own.

Frank was small but strong, and Bob was having a hell of a time holding onto him. Frank squirmed out from underneath him and attempted to shove Bob's face into the dirt. Bob flipped over and grabbed Frank by the nape of the neck, but Frank squirmed away once more. Yelling incoherently (Bob) and laughing hysterically (Frank), they rolled across the dirt and scraggly grass of the little strip of not-really-a-lawn behind the venue.

Bob finally got Frank pinned on his stomach with his arms twisted behind his back. Lying mostly on top of Frank, Bob rested for a second, panting. Frank's head was turned to the side, his eyes closed and his mouth turned upward in a slight, mysterious smile. Bob suddenly realized exactly how sexual their position was.

"Take me now, Bryar, you big hunk of werewolf," Frank murmured, giving Bob a seductive look over his shoulder with one heavy-lidded green eye.

"Uh..." Bob stuttered, feeling his bloodflow head south. Shit, this was a bad, bad idea. He wanted to turn tail and just get the hell out of town. He wanted to fuck Frank into the _ground_. His dick really didn't seem to care that Frank was a vampire, the talent, or just pure out-of-his-league.

Before Bob could act on any of the conflicting impulses racing through his head, a pair of beat-up Doc Martens appeared next to them. "Do I need to separate you two idiots?" Brian asked calmly.

"Uh, no?" Bob said, rolling off of Frank's back onto the ground.

"Help, help, I'm being repressed!" Frank yelled, not moving.

Brian snorted. "Try not to break my rhythm guitarist," he said. The Doc Martens disappeared from Bob's field of view.

"Come and see the violence inherent in the system!" Frank yelled at Brian's back before rolling over, leaning into Bob's side with a laugh. "I think it's funny how he thinks he owns us now."

Bob blew a puff of breath upwards, trying to dislodge a chunk of grass stuck to his eyebrow. "I don't think it's ownership so much as..." Bob's voice trailed off. He wasn't sure how to put it into words, but he knew exactly how Brian felt. He was way too familiar with the grinding desire to protect, to shelter those most important to him. It'd been too long since he'd had that for himself and he could almost hate Brian for having it when he didn't.

"Kin," Frank's voiced filled in when Bob's failed. "We're all freaks and he's one of us."

Bob made an agreeing noise and tried not to pay attention to how the weight of Frank's body felt leaning against him. He just had to make sure he didn't get stupid about things and start thinking that he belonged, that he could have this. He'd thought he belonged with Quinn and The Used, after all, and look how well that had turned out. Bob frowned, his mood immediately souring.

"Bob," Frank poked him in the side. "Hey, Bob. BobBobBob."

"What?" He swatted at Frank's pointy finger, totally not expecting him to climb on top of Bob, straddling his waist. Jesus. Good thing Brian's appearance had totally deflated his libido, or else Frank would be getting a hell of a surprise.

"You're one of us too. You know that, right?"

Bob frowned up at him, resisting the way that the edges of his mouth were trying to turn up in a pleased smile. He knew he wasn't one of them, would never _be_ one of them, but it was nice of Frank to say. "You're a freak."

"Takes one to know one," Frank shot back automatically. "Seriously, though. You're one of us now. You're ours."

Despite himself and his own better judgment, Bob felt his cheeks turning pink. Damn pale skin.

Frank's small smile wasn't what Bob expected, and neither was the cool finger pressed against the heat of his cheek.

Frank bouncing, hard, once on his stomach before jumping to his feet and running away was totally expected, though.

"Urgh," Bob groaned, rubbing his stomach. He lay on his back in the dead grass for a while, staring up at the sky, trying to figure out how his life had changed so completely in just a few short weeks. It almost felt like he he had a _pack_ again, weird as it was.

And suddenly Bob dreaded the end of the tour, because -- pack or no -- it meant leaving Frank and the rest of My Chemical Romance behind.


	2. Chapter 2

_Midwest  
Early May, 2003_

Bob was too much of a professional to have more than a couple of beers when he was working. So by the time he finished packing his gear up and making sure everything was secure, most of the rest of the tour was well on their way to hammered while he was still unfortunately sober.

They'd taken over the patio around the outside pool of the shitty two-story motel the tour had been booked into, and (at least until the cops got called) that was party central. Bob got handed a beer and two shots on his way up to dump his duffle in the room he was sharing with four other techs.

This was the last official night of the tour. Tomorrow, they'd scatter in opposite directions and god only knew when he'd see Frank again. The thought gave him a weird pang in his chest, but Bob wasn't going to think about that right now. Or ever, probably. Right now, Bob was a man with a mission -- to get as drunk as humanly possible.

Bob threw his duffle on the floor and headed back downstairs to the pool.

Unsurprisingly, Jepha was already naked and in the uncharacteristically clean pool. He had a hand wrapped around both Bert and Gerard's ankles as they sat on the edge of the pool. Bob was pretty sure they'd both end up in the water at some point during the night. Jeph had been pretty vocal about the _"hellish, godawful, what the fuck"_ odor the two of them had trailing after them the past couple of days.

"Bob!" Ray yelled, waving drunkenly from the other side of the pool.  Mikey was leaning against him, clearly already on his way to plastered.  "Come on, we're gonna play quarters!"

Bob gave him the international hand signal for "I gotta get a drink first," curving his right hand into a circle and tipping it up near his mouth.  Ray waved him off, beaming.  Bob had to laugh that even with a full cup of booze in his left hand, Mikey was still texting.

He didn't see Frank anywhere.  Pelissier was on the other side of the courtyard, hanging out with a bunch of guys that Bob privately considered to be almost as douchey as Pelissier.  Brian and Cortez were hanging out with a couple of techs from other bands, and Bob decided that he'd go join them after he got a drink.  He was just not in the mood for hard partying with Mikey and Ray.  Plus, he had the strong suspicion that Quinn would end up as part of that group, and Bob would rather chew on broken glass than spend a minute around Quinn when he'd been drinking.

Bob had barely taken two steps towards the makeshift bar Thrice had set up in the corner when an Iero-sized missile hit his back and scrambled up to wrap his arms around his head. "Bob, you fucker, I thought you'd punked out."

"Some of us have actual jobs around here, asshole," Bob said, trying and failing to pry Frank's hands off his forehead.

"You mean you're not paid to be my personal jungle gym?" Frank asked, sounding heart-broken. Bob could tell without even seeing him that Frank's eyes were huge with fake sorrow, like those freaky Precious Moments kids or something.

"You fuckers can't afford to pay me to haul your heavy ass around." Dodging a few drunk members of Story Of The Year, Bob finally reached the bar. "Vodka, with just enough Diet Coke to give it some color."

"You got it," one of Thrice's guitarists -- Bob could never remember their names -- said, pouring Hawkeye Vodka (stay fucking classy, Iowa) into one of the inevitable red Solo cups. He didn't even blink at the sight of Frank clinging to Bob's back like a baby gorilla.

"Vodka and Diet Coke? Really? That's not a very manly, Viking-type drink," Frank said. "Mead, barkeep! And make it a double."

The Thrice guy handed Bob his drink, flipping Frank off casually. "Listen, man, we got vodka, tequila, and whiskey. You want something exotic, I think we might have some Mad Dog 20/20."

"Don't even think about it, Iero." Bob shifted Frank higher on his back, adding, "If you puke that bumwine shit on me, I will end you."

Frank sighed, "Whiskey and coke, my good man."

Bob wrinkled his nose at the sickly sweet smell of Frank's drink as it was passed over his shoulder -- it was just as nasty as the Mad Dog to him -- and turned around to survey the rest of the party. It was sort of a disaster already and Bob was glad there wasn't much of anything except a truck stop in the immediate area.

"Bob, Bob! Look!" Frank put a cool hand on his cheek and pushed his head to the left. "I think Brian is macking on Cortez! Let's go break that shit up."

Bob snorted and nipped at the hand poking at his jaw. "If you want to bring the wrath of Schechter down on your ass, go ahead. I'm staying far away from that."

"You are no fun at all, Bobert." Frank punctuated the statement with a loud belch in Bob's ear.

"Oh, I can be plenty fun, in the right circumstances." Bob realized a second too late exactly how much of a come-on that sounded.

"Reeeeeeeeeeeeeally?" Frank said archly, wrapping his whole body tighter around Bob. He was like a python or something, Bob groused to himself, trying to ignore how _right_ it felt to have Frank's body and scent wrapped around him. "And exactly what circumstances would those be?"

Bob floundered, sure Frank was just teasing, but still unable to figure out a way out of that particular verbal fuck-up. He was saved from having to find an answer by a loud splash and screeching noise from the pool, where Jepha had managed to pull Gerard into the water.

"Oh crap!" Frank said, sliding off Bob's back. "Dude, Gerard might melt in that much water!"

"Seriously?" Bob wasn't really sure what the rules were with faeries. It sounded unlikely, but on the other hand, he'd never seen Gerard shower. Ever.

"Nah, probably not," Frank shrugged, pushing through the crowd toward the pool. "But it'll be funny as shit, anyway."

They got to the edge of the pool just as Gerard managed to haul himself out and sprawl limply on the concrete. Bert was whooping with laughter and Bob barely had time to think _oh, shit_ before Gerard's hand shot out just a little too fast to be human, knotted in the ratty hem of Bert's pants and yanked him into the pool.

Bert looked like a drowned rat when he surfaced, sputtering and swearing violence on Gerard and all he held dear. He used Jepha's body as a ladder and flung himself at Gerard as soon as he was clear of the water. Bob scrambled back out of the way before he could be pulled into the melee.

The warring singers had drawn everyone else's attention and Bob took the opportunity to grab one of the rickety lounge chairs in an alcove almost entirely hidden behind a half-wall and a bunch of fake potted trees. He took a deep swallow of his drink, wincing a bit at the burn of cheap-ass vodka, and settled into the chair.

Frank had disappeared at some point during the ruckus, probably distracted by other possibilities for causing mischief. Bob found himself a little bummed out by that and immediately wished he could kick his own ass. When was he ever going to learn?

A while later -- Bob didn't have a watch on, but the level of vodka and Diet Coke in his cup had gone down substantially -- Frank appeared out of nowhere and plopped himself down next to Bob's hip. The rusty lounge chair groaned in protest at the extra weight, but didn't collapse.

"I am the mighty bringer of booze!" Frank announced, brandishing a mostly full bottle by the neck.

Bob squinted at the label. "Stoli? How the hell did you score that?"

Frank shimmied, grinding his hip into Bob's. "Traded my sweet, sweet ass."

"Please. That ass is Phillips at best." Despite his joking, something dark twisted through him at the thought of Frank with someone else but he ruthlessly pushed the feeling away. My Chem wasn't his to protect, Frank wasn't his to cherish; they weren't his pack and he had to stop thinking of them like that. He'd learned his lesson with Quinn -- he might be friends with the talent, but he wasn't one of them and he'd better fucking remember that.

Frank just stuck his tongue out at Bob and pulled a couple of cans of Diet Coke out of his hoodie pocket. "Where's your cup, bitch?"

Bob held his red cup out and Frank mixed a hellish 80-20 vodka and diet for him. With a mental shrug, Bob shotgunned half of it before slumping back into the uncertain embrace of the chair.

"Shove over," Frank commanded after mixing his own drink and putting the bottle down carefully on the cracked concrete.

"Iero, I know you are roughly the size of a first grader, but this chair is going to fucking collapse with both of us on it."

For once, Frank ignored the teasing about his height. Muttering something that didn't sound like English under his breath, he pulled something dark and glittery out of his hoodie pocket.

Bob frowned at it. "Is that one of Gerard's weird-ass handkerchiefs?" Gerard was the only guy Bob knew from this era who actually carried around handkerchiefs. Not only that, but they were black satin with lace edging. Gerard was definitely... unique.

Frank waved his free hand at Bob in a "please shut up now" gesture, continuing to mutter in what was starting to sound to Bob like -- was that Irish? He finished the incantation, waved the handkerchief around, and suddenly, the lounge chair was much larger and comfier, with actual cushions instead of broken rubber straps.

"Magic," Frank said. "Gee hooked me up."

Someone had apparently put Barry White on the stereo outside. He could hear Barry's deep, mellow tones telling him that _I've heard people say that too much of anything is not good for you, baby_. Bob would have thought this was more of a Black Flag sort of crowd, but whatever. "He gave you a magic spell to make the lounge chair less shitty?"

"Dude. Don't be a hater."

Maybe it was the vodka fog, but Bob decided to just go with it. Soft, clean smelling cushions trumped rusty lounge chairs any day, and in the end, indulging Frank for a little while wouldn't hurt anyone. Frank tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket and did some sort of sneaky vampire move to get himself tucked against Bob's side.

"The fuck, Frank?"

"Shut it, Los Lobos, you're a fucking furnace." Frank slung his arm over Bob's chest and tucked his knee between Bob's.

Bob grumbled a little, but dropped his arm over Frank's shoulders and pulled him closer. He was just keeping him warm, after all. "It's not even cold out, you pussy."

"Fuck off. I'm sort of lacking a circulatory system here, jackass."

It felt really nice, Bob had to admit, lying back on the comfy cushions with Frank in his arms while the party carried on outside their shadowy little niche. The alcove also seemed to have gotten deeper and more sheltered, but Bob couldn't tell if that was because of the vodka or Gerard's spell.

Frank's hand was restless against his chest, tapping out rhythms and drawing abstract patterns. It wasn't unpleasant, but Bob got the impression that Frank was twitchy for a specific reason as opposed to his normal, free-form twitchy. He was about to ask him what the hell was wrong when Frank muttered, "Ah, fuck it," and levered himself up to straddle Bob's waist.

"What--" was all Bob got out before Frank propped his hands on Bob's shoulders and leaned forward to lick and nip at his bottom lip.

 _BAD IDEA_ was flashing in neon lights inside of Bob's head, but he couldn't stop himself from kissing Frank back. And it certainly wasn't stopping Bob from sliding his hands into Frank's hair in order to angle his head better for deepening the kiss.

Bob felt a growl of possession, of belonging, rumbling deep in his chest. Frank was sliding his cool, clever hands under Bob's layers of shirts, and Bob forgot that he wasn't ever going to do this again. That he wasn't going to get involved with someone who was just going to break his heart. Every lesson he'd learned since Quinn had up and dumped him out of the blue melted away under the press of Frank's mouth. He wanted it all, everything he could get.

Frank seemed to be on board with that plan, melting against his chest when Bob shoved a hand into the back of his pants. Common sense completely fled Bob's mind at Frank's reaction and he was seriously contemplating the logistics of having sex in a magically enhanced lounge chair ten feet from several dozen people.

They somehow managed to roll across the lounge chair, Bob settling on top of Frank. As he slid his hand out from underneath Frank's ass, intending to start to work on unzipping Frank's jeans, a sharp little pain sliced along Bob's knuckles. Hissing in pain, Bob yanked his hand back, lifting it up to find a long, shallow cut already starting to bleed. "Fuck," Bob muttered. "I probably need to get a tetanus shot now."

Frank's hand shot up and grabbed Bob's wrist. Bob jerked his hand back reflexively, but Frank's grip was like fucking iron; there was no breaking it. Frank pulled Bob's hand toward his mouth. His lips were parted and Bob could just barely see the tips of his fangs peeking out. Which was beyond weird, because Frank _never_ let his fangs show.

"Uh, Frank?" Bob asked. Frank's eyes were wide and dark, the pupils blown. He pulled Bob's hand to his mouth and stopped, breathing with his mouth open, nose twitching like a cat's. "Frank, seriously, snap out of it."

Frank blinked at him slowly. Bob could tell the moment when Frank got rational thought back. He pushed Bob's hand away like he was burned, hissing, "Fuck!"

Bob shifted onto his side, facing Frank, who had his hands over his eyes and was swearing quietly in what Bob was guessing was Italian. "Hey," Bob said, putting a hand on Frank's shoulder. He was uncomfortably aware, as he hadn't been in quite a while, that he was touching a creature who could eat him for supper. "It's okay. No harm, no foul." He wasn't entirely sure if he _believed_ that, but he hated seeing Frank so upset.

"Oh, there was about to be a lot of harm, trust me," Frank said, muffled but distinct.

Bob knew the smart thing to do would be to just let it go, to let Frank slink away in guit and misery, but he couldn't do it. He leaned over him, trying to gently pry Frank's hands away. "Hey, c'mon," he murmured, nuzzling the edge of Frank's jaw.

And that's when the spell was broken.

Literally.

Laughing like hyenas, Ray and Jeph stumbled into the alcove. Bob blinked and suddenly the alcove was smaller and less sheltered, and the broken straps of the rusty lounge chair were digging into his back. Fucking faerie magic -- it was all just illusions.

"Dude, party foul!" Ray yelled. Jeph made exaggerated kissy faces, sucking his lips in to make one of the most annoying noises in the universe. Bob seriously considered killing them both.

He upgraded his homicide plans from possible to definite when they grabbed Frank by the back of his pants and pulled him away from Bob and out of the little alcove.

"Come on, Iero, you're up for beer pong."

Frank went limp in their arms and they stumbled, but didn't stop as they headed towards the opposite side of the pool area. Jepha hooted some sort of triumphal march and yelled, "We come bearing the conquering hero!" Frank wasn't helping them carry him away, but he didn't look back at Bob either.

"Fuck." Bob slammed his head back into the lounge chair, groaning.

He really, seriously did not feel like dealing with other people right now. The way he was feeling at the moment, if anyone fucked with him, Brian would end up having to bail him out of jail -- again -- and that would just get ugly.

Bob shifted uncomfortably on the lounge chair as he cooled off. In more than one way, because now that he was no longer caught up in the moment, he was remembering all the various reasons why sex with Frank was such a bad idea.

Frank was a fucking vampire, and Bob was a werewolf.  Frank was the talent, and Bob was just a tech. 

Bottom line: Frank was totally out of his league.

And Bob was leaving in the morning.

***

 _Texas  
Late June, 2004_

Seeing Frank and the rest of the My Chem guys for the first time in a year was like... taking off a pair of too-small pants.

Or something.

Bob sucked at analogies.

All he knew was that watching them trail Brian across the parking lot like ducklings felt like taking a deep breath for the first time in way too long.

It wasn't like he'd spent all year pining or anything. It was just that every so often, he found himself wondering how they were doing. Maybe, possibly, worrying about them. Just a little. Because Mikey had the self-preservation instincts of your average guinea pig and Gerard wasn't much better; Ray was entirely too trusting, and Frank... well. Frank was Frank, and so Bob occasionally found himself worrying that Frank had pissed off the wrong skinhead, or come down with pneumonia again, or run out of his gross shake ingredients.

Just occasionally, though. Really.

It was nice, though, when they caught sight of him and immediately broke rank with Brian to head towards him, Frank in the lead.  
   
"Bob! BobBobBob!" Frank threw himself at Bob and scrambled up his body until he could sit on his shoulders. Once he was settled, he leaned forward and hugged Bob's head. "We've missed your magic ears, Bobby!"

Bob thought about pitching Frank off his shoulders, but just being around all of them had him positively giddy on the inside. "What'd I say about calling me Bobby?"

Frank drummed his fingers on Bob's head, saying helpfully, "Only after BJs?"

He'd almost forgotten how much of a little shit Frank could be. Bob restrained himself from grinning like a moron. "Right, and so that would be... _never_."

"Bob! Hey, we were hoping you'd be teching on this tour." Ray's scent, like gunsmoke and burning leaves, melded with Frank's scent of earth, blood, and crumbling flowers. Bob surreptitiously took a deep breath, feeling tension he hadn't even been aware of melt away from him.

"Couldn't keep me away," Bob said, shaking Ray's hand. "Which probably means the brain damage is permanent."

"Bob!" Gerard hugged him, resting a little too much weight on him, like he was having problems keeping his balance. Bob took a sniff of him and nearly gagged -- he could barely smell Gerard's scent under the layers of filth and alcohol.

"Gerard, how've you been?" Bob hugged him the best he could with Frank's legs in the way. He felt soft, swollen in a way that really worried Bob.

He didn't even have time to do much more than glance at Brian before Gerard shuffled back and Mikey slid into the same space. He wiggled his arms under Frank's legs and burrowed into Bob, going limp when Bob wrapped him in a big hug. He smelled nearly as bad, as _sick_ , as Gerard, and Bob had to wonder what the _fuck_ had gone on in the last year.

"Hey, Mikey," Bob said, taken aback that Mikey was being so affectionate. Normally Mikey didn't really touch other people, besides Gerard.

Mikey mumbled something and pulled away, fiddling uncomfortably with his glasses. Now that Bob was paying attention, he could smell traces of _wrong_ on Ray and Frank too -- worry, guilt, tension, and anger. What the hell?

Brian would probably react poorly to being told that he wasn't taking good enough care of them. But fuck Brian, really, if he couldn't take care of his own pack, then maybe he didn't deserve to be alpha -- wait, fuck. _Band_ , Bob corrected himself. Jesus fuck, he needed to get his head on straight and stop listening to his stupid instincts.

Even Brian smelled off, acrid like burnt wires and dust. Curling his hand around the back of Brian's neck, Bob flinched at the feeling of magic running unrestrained just under his skin. Bob squeezed the back of Brian's neck until he relaxed just a little, before letting him step back out of the hug.

"Where's Otter?" Not that Bob cared, or thought that Pelissier gave a shit about him, but whatever. He was polite.

Everyone shrugged and Ray waved a hand back towards the venue, saying, "He ran into some dudes he knows."

"Well, then," Bob grabbed Frank's ankles and heaved until he was hanging down Bob's back, "let's go see if we can find some food."

"Hey, no, put me down, motherfucker!" Frank yelled, thrashing. He was laughing at the same time, so Bob wasn't too worried about it.

"I'd end up carrying you anyway, might as well -- fuck!" Bob yelled as Frank managed to tangle his legs up, almost sending both of them crashing to the ground. He lost his grip on Frank's ankles.

Frank slid to the pavement and lay there for a second, grinning up at him. "Iero wins again!" he said, bouncing to his feet.

"Only you would count landing on your head as winning, Frankie," Ray said, pushing at his shoulder. The two of them corralled the Way brothers, leaving Bob and Brian to trail behind them.

He'd been worried that things would be awkward with Frank after the kiss on the last night of tour -- especially since they hadn't had any contact with each other since then -- but Frank seemed totally the same as always, just a little more hyper than usual, maybe. Bob was weirdly annoyed that Frank was so easily acting like nothing at all had happened. But, fuck, it was just a kiss, right? Right.

Bob shoved all the thoughts about Frank under the mental carpet again. There were more important things to think about, like why most of MCR was looking like the tail end of a year-long bender. "So, Brian."

"Bob."

"What the fuck happened?"

"Fuck, Bob."  Brian rubbed at his eyes wearily.  "It's a fucking mess. Gerard is fucked up all the time and Mikey isn't far behind. Frank is miserable and Ray is hiding and fucking Otter can't be bothered to play on the beat half the time."

"Fuck." Bob felt an invisible wave of _guiltguiltguilt_ sweeping over him for not being there to protect them. It was ridiculous, of course -- he wasn't even their tech -- but he could no more stop feeling guilty about it than he could stop getting hairy and short-tempered around the full moon.

"Yeah. And now we've got Bert and Gerard touring together again, which is making my ulcers have little baby ulcers all over the place." Brian fished a battered roll of Tums out of his pocket and popped two of them in his mouth, crunching them between his teeth like he'd rather be punching someone.

As if on cue, Bert appeared from behind one of the buses and wrapped himself around Gerard. After a few seconds of whispering, the two of them wandered off. The mood of the rest of the group plummeted and Bob wanted to strangle Bert for a second.  Instead, he dropped a heavy arm around Mikey's shoulders and settled his hand on Frank's upper arm.

"Come on, hot dogs wait for no man."

Mikey made a noncommittal noise and tried to sidle away, but Bob knew how little that skinny fucker would eat unless someone bird-dogged him into it, so he just pulled Mikey in tighter as he steered them toward the food tent. Frank shrugged Bob's hand off after a second, lighting a cigarette with quick, angry movements.

Mikey was monosyllabic and Frank was chain-smoking, so Ray and Brian were left to carry the conversation over limp food-services hotdogs. Bob put in a word now and then, but he was distracted by worrying about the state that the guys were in.

This was not the same band he'd said goodbye to a year ago. Hell, if someone asked his honest opinion right now, he'd have to say that he didn't think they'd even last out the rest of the tour without imploding.

Bob choked down the last few bites of his hotdog. It tasted like ashes in his mouth.

***

 _West Coast  
Early July, 2004_

Bob was on the MCR bus playing _Magic_ with Mikey when Frank dragged Gerard up the stairs. As soon as the doors closed behind them, cutting off the documentary camera crew, Frank dropped all pretense of humanity and hauled Gerard up onto his shoulder. He stumbled back to the bunk area and dropped Gerard onto his filthy sheets.  Even though Frank was obviously furious, he still took the time to wedge a pillow behind Gerard's back in order to keep him from rolling over and choking on his own vomit -- a precaution they were all too familiar with at this point.

Frank propped his head on the edge of the upper bunk and stood there for a few minutes, completely still except for the rise and fall of his chest fueling the deep growl Bob could barely hear.  That alone was enough for Bob to turn towards Mikey to convince him to disappear for a little while. Mikey was already heading down the stairs, though, and Bob's half-hearted move to follow him was interrupted by Frank putting his fist through the thin veneer around his bunk.

"Fuck!" Frank yelled. "Motherfucking cocksucking sonofabitch--" His rant cut off in a feral snarl as he whirled around, clearly looking for something else to break.

"Hey, hey, calm down, man--" Bob reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. Knocking Bob's hand away, Frank advanced on him, growling. With a shock, Bob noticed that Frank's fangs were down. He could count the number of times that he'd seen Frank with his fangs showing on the fingers of one hand and still have fingers left over.

"Don't motherfucking tell me to calm down. Is your band falling apart? Is one of your best friends trying to -- trying to fucking drink himself to death?" Frank slammed the side of his hand through the wood veneer of one of the overhead compartments.

"Knock it off!" Bob yanked Frank's hand out of the cupboard and tried to banish the certainty that this was all his fault somehow.

Frank shook off his hold and pushed him hard enough to knock him back a step, hissing, "Fuck _off_."

Bob automatically pushed back, a step ahead of the frantic chant of _shitshitshitangryvampire_ that started up in his head, and tried again, "Just settle the fuck down!"

Frank bared his teeth in an awful parody of a smile, fangs glinting. "Or what, Bob? Are you gonna _make me_? 'Cause that could be fun." He stepped closer, his head cocked to the side flirtatiously. "Wanna walk on the wild side, baby?"

Bob blinked, almost about to laugh at the horrible, cheesy line, when Frank suddenly went for his neck with the speed of a striking snake. Bob dodged back, swearing. "Fuck! Frank, what the fuck are you doing?"

Frank's eyes were dilated, only a shred of green showing around the black pupil, and Bob could smell the vodka on his breath from a few feet away. "I could show you a... _real_... good time. Come on, haven't you ever wondered why people like getting bitten by vampires so much?"

"You don't bite people," Bob said, standing his ground as Frank slinked up to him. The way he was moving, the way he was holding his head, the unblinking, black stare -- it was making all of Bob's instincts scream _Danger! Danger!_ , but he wasn't backing off. Fuck that.

"Not lately, but I have." Frank licked over his teeth, adding, "I've spent days with someone, biting and fucking and living in ways you couldn't even imagine."

Bob managed not to flinch when Frank reached out and settled his hand against his throat. It was a struggle, but he even managed to hold still when Frank leaned in to snuffle against his neck and make an almost purring noise. "Such a strong heart, Bob. I can hear it all the time, you know."

"Is this when you break out the Bela Lugosi cape? Or is this more of an _Interview With the Vampire_ sort of thing?" Bob was pretty proud of himself for keeping his voice level and calm-sounding when all of his fight-or-flight instincts were going off like the Fourth of July.

Frank snickered. "It's a _little_ bit less gay than _Interview_ ," he said, sounding so much like himself again that Bob made the fatal error of letting his guard down. Instantly, Frank was plastered to him, mouth pressed to his neck, hands clutching at the back of his hoodie, one leg hooked around the back of Bob's thigh and hard cock pressing unmistakably into his hip. "But we can work on that," he muttered, licking the side of Bob's neck.

Bob froze, torn between the urge to peel Frank off of him and run far, far away and the disturbing desire to tip his head back and just submit. The scrape of teeth against his neck made his decision for him.  Bob forced his arms up between their bodies and pushed Frank away. "No."

Frank shook his head and just like that, his fangs were gone. "What?"

"I said 'no.' Not like -- just, _no_."

Bob wanted to say that Frank was drunk and angry and scared about Gerard. That the two of them fucking was not the answer. That they were _friends_ and that trumped sex or blood or whatever. But something changed in Frank then, something hardened, and it scared Bob more than the teeth and growling had. "Fine. Get out of here, then."

"Frank--"

" _I_ said 'no.' Get the fuck out."

"But--"

"Out! Now! Or else, so help me, I'm going to do something we're both going to regret," Frank growled, advancing on him.

Bob found himself standing outside the bus with the door sliding closed behind him and the distinct feeling that he'd avoided disaster by the skin of his teeth. "What the -- what the _fuck_ just happened?"

"Thrown off _another_ tourbus? Tch, tch," a familiar, and distinctly unwelcome, voice said from the shadows by the next bus over.

Bob froze. Fuck. The last thing he needed to deal with tonight -- Quinn.

"What do you want, Quinn?"

"Me? I want for nothing." Gesturing broadly with his cigarette, Quinn drawled, "I have the sun and the sky. I have a beer in my hand and your ongoing public humiliation. Everything I could possibly ask for has been provided."

Even a year later, Quinn's venomous attitude still hurt. The change had been so sudden and so complete that Bob was still baffled by it. He wanted to ask why -- ask what the fuck had changed Quinn's mind about loving Bob.  But he knew from experience that that line of questions would only lead even more sweetly vicious words.

"Well, that's great.  Fantastic. I'll just fuck off now," Bob said, dodging away from Quinn around the end of MCR's bus.

"What's the rush?" Quinn called after him. "Are you hiding from someone? Please tell me one of the My Chem guys is going to come after you to beat you up, because that shit would be _hilarious_. We could sell tickets."

There was a big, snarling part of Bob that wanted to turn around and _demand_ explanations and apologies from Quinn. To get a straight fucking answer from Quinn's nasty, smug mouth and leave him just as alone and hurt as he had left Bob.

Fortunately for Quinn, Bob had mostly mastered those impulses before Columbus sailed the ocean blue.  But a year of undeserved spite had left him pretty much raw and more willing to strike out than he normally was. He didn't have the energy for fighting, though, so he kept walking but let out a low, rumbling growl. He knew the idling buses would cover most of the sound but enough of it would filter back to Quinn to make him uneasy.

It was a petty revenge, but all Bob had the stomach for after what had just happened with Frank.

***

Bob thought maybe Frank had forgotten the entire incident the next time he saw him. Frank laughed and smoked and acted like a jackass, just like normal.  It wasn't until Bob unthinkingly went to ruffle Frank's hair and he ducked out of Bob's reach that he realized Frank was subtly avoiding him.

Oh, he wasn't avoiding Bob's company or snubbing him, but he was making damn sure that Bob didn't touch him. At all.

At first Bob thought he might be imagining things, but the next few times he saw Frank, it was the same thing. Bob would reach out to poke his shoulder, or whatever, and suddenly Frank would be a few feet away, face totally blank, chain-smoking worse than ever. Bob hadn't even realized how much Frank had always touched him -- jumped on him, leaned on him, sat on him -- until it suddenly stopped.

And the worst part was, he was sure Frank was mad because of the night on the bus, and that _wasn't even Bob's fault_. Frank was the one who'd gone all crazy vampire on him! Bob had just been trying to help, and Frank was the one who'd made it all weird and sexual.

Bob knew he should just stop trying to touch Frank and give in to his silent request to back the fuck off, but something in him rebelled at the thought. Even though he knew he was being completely irrational and that the last thing he wanted to do was get involved with Frank, he _liked_ touching Frank. And besides, he wasn't the one acting all weird.

In fact, it just made Bob want to touch Frank _more_.

So he did.

He took every opportunity to stealthily reach out and get his hands on Frank, to get up in his space, to brush against him. He knew he was making Frank mad, but he _needed_ to touch him in a way that was making Bob really suspicious about his own motives.

He thought that Brian might have figured out that there was something going on between Bob and Frank, but Brian was being run so ragged keeping Gerard from self-destructing that all he could do was glare at Bob meaningfully from time to time. Bob tried to avoid him, until Frank figured that out and suddenly started spending all his time around Brian. Bob had to be a little bit more discreet about stalking Frank when Brian was around, but he managed. He felt guilty about the fact that he literally was stalking Frank, but not nearly enough to stop.

If this was all he could have of Frank, all he would let himself have, he wasn't giving it up.

***

 _Canada  
Mid-July, 2004_

Bob didn't even know who the hell she was, but the minute he saw the smile on Frank's face when he saw the short brunette waiting for him backstage, he hated her with a fiery passion. Which was stupid and fucked up, but there it was: Bob Bryar, stupid and fucked up. He could print that on t-shirts and sell them at the merch table.

Frank launched himself at the brunette, wrapping his arms around her and laughing. Bob kind of wanted to tear her throat out.

To make matters worse, everyone else seemed to know and love her too. Even fucking Jepha picked her up and twirled her around like a little girl. Bob was ready to skulk away and hide until she left again, but Brian dug his fingers into Bob's arm and said, "Come meet Jamia."

"I got a couple things I need to take care of..." Bob said, trying to pull himself out of Brian's grip.

Brian's fingers tightened. "You should meet her. Jamia likes to check out anyone new who's spending time with her guys."

Bob's eyebrows raised. " _Her_ guys?"

Brian shrugged. "You'll see."

The mysterious Jamia was curled up under Frank's arm, the side of her head resting against Frank's jaw. Bob's frown deepened with each step they took towards the group. There was something supernatural about Jamia, of course -- until he'd met MCR, he hadn't seen more than a warlock or sprite in ages -- but also something ageless and frightening.

Her eyes tracked him as he drew closer and when the sun ducked behind a cloud for a second, he would have sworn he saw the outline of leathery wings behind her. _Shittyshitfuck_.

Nothing good ever had wings.

Brian was either completely oblivious to his hesitance or, more likely, was fucking sick of all the drama and had decided to force the issue.

"Hey, Jamia, good to see you," Brian said, actually taking her hand and kissing her on the cheek like a gentleman. Bob boggled at him. The look Brian shot him in return was full of _shut the fuck up_. "This is Bob.  He's The Used's sound guy."

"Bob," Jamia said, not smiling. It was seriously weird to hear that she had a heavy Jersey accent, like a normal person. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Jamia--" Frank said quietly, warning. Frowning, Jamia and Frank locked eyes for a second. Bob was _not_ jealous of the way they knew each other well enough to have whole conversations wordlessly. Because that would be ridiculous.

And he absolutely was not jealous of the way Frank dropped his eyes, obviously giving in on their battle of wills. Jamia leaned forward and kissed him on the corner of his mouth before turning to Bob and saying, "I loved what you did with the bridge of 'The Taste of Ink.' You should show me what that was."

She slid her hand into the crook of his elbow and had him turned around and heading back towards the booth before he could even blink. Even though going with her was the last thing he wanted, Bob followed along docilely. How she was managing it, Bob had no idea because she wasn't pulling him or directing him in any way that he could tell, but she had him trailing along like... like some kind of puppy.

Bob tried to pull his arm away from hers, to slow their pace, to do _something_ , but it was no use. Jamia laughed and patted his arm with her free hand. "You're fighting me! How cute!"

They were all the way back at the booth before he got back control of his own body. "What the hell are you?" he demanded, watching her sit on one of the folding chairs with her legs crossed.

She carefully smoothed her skirt (black, with a pattern of little pink skulls & crossbones) over her knees before answering. "Older than you, puppy," she said, her mouth curving.

"Puppy?" Bob growled, fists clenching. She met his eyes and it was like clouds had suddenly swept over the hot sun. He was cold, and the air smelled like damp stone, like caves deep underground. Bob felt a shiver run up his spine.

Jamia cocked her head to the side, watching him with unreadable black eyes. "Why are you making my Frankie so unhappy, puppy?"

Bob wanted to growl and claw and tear. He wanted to shout that Frank wasn't hers, that none of them were hers, but when he opened his mouth, all he could manage was a quiet, "Don't want to."

She lifted an eyebrow, "So you're not torturing him on purpose?"

Torture? What the fuck was she talking about? Bob shook his head, "Just wanted to be close."

"Ah," she sighed, tapping a fingernail against her lower lip thoughtfully. "Not malicious, just clueless. That makes things more complicated."

Bob suddenly had control of his own voice back. "What the hell did you just do to me?" he snarled.

Jamia waved a hand at him impatiently. "Just kept you from lying to me, that's all."

That's all? She'd forced him to tell the truth and thought that was _nothing_? "What are you?" he asked again, more politely this time.

She smiled, leaning comfortably back in the folding chair. "People used to call us the Kindly Ones."

Bob had picked up enough folklore over the years to know that the nicer name a mythological creature got called by, the more terrifying it generally was. "And what would they call you now?"

"One of the Furies," she shrugged casually, lighting a cigarette and taking a deep drag. "The problem here, as I see it, is that you and Frank are both being idiots. Fix it," Jamia ordered, her voice cold and deep again.

Bob fought against his natural instinct to submit to an obvious Alpha. "I've been trying! Frank is the one who is being all--"

"Stubborn," Jamia finished with a sigh. "He thinks Ray and Jepha stumbled across the two of you because he was getting ready to lick the blood off your hand. It was 'a sign' or some other crazy shit."

"That's..." Bob could only blink. What the actual fuck?

"Crazy, I know." Jamia shook her head, "I've been trying to break him of it for ages, but once a superstitious Italian peasant, always a superstitious Italian peasant, I guess."

Great, now Bob had to deal with mystical portents on top of regular old vampire craziness and Iero stubbornness? That was total bullshit. "This is total bullshit."

"It's true, you're getting shafted," Jamia grinned at him, "but Frank is my favorite.  And it's now your job to fix it."

"Yeah, sure. I'll fix whatever," Bob agreed automatically. Of course he did, because Jamia was a fucking Fury. A flesh-rending, vengeance-seeking _Fury_. What the fuck had Brian gotten him into?

Jamia narrowed her eyes at his easy capitulation, but since Bob actually _wanted_ things to be okay between him and Frank, she obviously saw his sincerity. She hmphed a little before standing up and brushing at the back of her skirt.  "Don't disappoint me, puppy."

"Why do you care so much?" Bob asked as she was about to leave the soundbooth.

She paused, turning to partially face him. "I've known Frank for a very, very long time. He is remarkable, isn't he?"

An embarrassingly sincere " _Yeah_ " slipped out before Bob figured out that she'd just put the whammy on him again.

Jamia grinned at him over her shoulder. "You'll do," she said.

Bob took a deep breath after she disappeared into the crowd. He had the feeling he had narrowly averted a disaster of epic proportions, but no matter how much he wanted to "fix" whatever had gone wrong between him and Frank, the truth was, he still didn't have the first clue what that was.

And if the look Frank was shooting him from across the field was any sort of indication, Bob was going to be the only one trying to fix things.


	3. Clouds Across the Moon Pt 3/4

_Midwest  
Late July, 2004_

Bob didn't understand why Frank was being such a pissy little bitch.

He'd apologized -- _again_ \-- but Frank was one stone cold motherfucker because he'd just shrugged and gone to look for someone to make him a tofu dog.

He'd gone to the time, trouble, and not inconsiderable expense of finding a source of vegan plasma replacement. Frank had rolled his eyes and put it in with his shake ingredients, but Bob was pretty sure he hadn't tried it yet.

As the end of the tour loomed closer and closer, things with the rest of My Chem were getting bad... really, really bad. As far as Bob could tell, Gerard was drunk from the time he rolled out of his bunk until the time he passed out sometime in the wee hours of the morning. Mikey seemed to be drunk only marginally less of the time. Ray spent all the time that they weren't playing hiding in the back of the bus. And Pelissier was just _gone_. Nowhere to be found unless they were onstage.  And sometimes even that was a near thing.

It all seemed to be heading for a blow-out, and (depressingly enough) Bob was honestly surprised that they'd reached the last night of the tour without My Chem breaking up.

Like always, the last night of tour was an exercise in just making shit work one last time before packing it in. Someone had fucked up the board in Denver and ever since then Bob had to MacGyver that shit every damn night to keep it going. He was tempted to take a hammer to it as he packed it away for the last time. Stupid piece of shit.

He glanced up at the steel gray sky and tried to shake the tension out of shoulders. It was fucking miserable out and he was pretty sure they were in for one hell of a storm before the night was through. It was still hot, even at this hour, and the air was thick and sour with humidity. Bob didn't doubt that the nasty weather was adding to the flaring tempers everywhere.

He actually had to help break up two fights on the way back to the bus. With the first one, just standing there looming and scowling had been enough; the second one, he'd had to wade into the middle of the brawl and ended up with a flying elbow to the jaw for his trouble. Bob rubbed the sore spot on his jaw, scowling. Stupid fuckers.

The last night of tour was traditionally the party night, but tonight Bob was just hoping to find somewhere quiet to hole up for the night. Staying on the Used's bus wasn't an option -- he absolutely was not in the mood for another encounter with Quinn.  They generally managed to be civil when working, but he knew from past experience that a drunk Quinn was just as likely to use Bob as a verbal punching bag.

Bob politely ignored the couple having sex in Bert's bunk (neither of whom was Bert) as he grabbed a pack of smokes and a rain poncho from his own bunk. Waving off Jeph's offer of a beer, he headed down the bus steps.

He thought about finding Frank for a last ditch effort at working out whatever the fuck went wrong between them, but he just couldn't. Despite the threat of Jamia looming over him, he was sick and tired of ramming his head against the brick wall of Frank's sheer stubbornness.

He just wanted to find a relatively quiet space and decompress a little before heading home. The end of a tour -- especially one a crazy as Warped -- was always a little weird, but leaving My Chem again sort of felt like he was abandoning a chunk of himself.  Despite Frank's asshole behavior over the past couple of weeks.

God, he was so _stupid_.

All the tour buses where he knew people well enough to crash seemed to be packed with partiers, and there was no way in hell he wanted to deal with pretending to be social. Bob walked further across the parking lot toward the back of the venue, smoking and brooding.

The wind was picking up, pushing pieces of trash around and kicking grit up into the air. Bob passed the backstage loading dock and kept walking, no goal in mind other than avoiding people.

There were a couple of little sheds back here, probably storage for lawnmowers or some shit. Bob paused next to one to light a cigarette, shielding his lighter against the gusting wind. Idly curious, he tried the door and found it unlocked. He glanced in -- yep, lawnmowers and coiled-up hoses, just like he'd thought.

"Breaking and entering now, Bob?" he heard from entirely too close behind him.

He thought he'd been able to get rid of the instinctive fight-or-flight response Frank caused in him, but apparently the animosity of the past few weeks had undone all of his work because he totally flinched away from the hot breath in his ear. His own weakness pissed him off, but he couldn't help the step back he took, snapping, "What the fuck do you want?"

Frank followed him into the shed, propping the door open with a bottle of fertilizer. "Come on, Bobby, you're the one who let Jamia bully him into apologizing after stalking me for weeks."

"I haven't been stalking you, jackass." He found _vegan plasma substitute_ and Frank was calling him a stalker? Fuck that fucking fucker. Bob felt his temper begin to slip its reins. "And Jamia didn't bully me into anything."

"Oh, okay, it's some _other_ furry motherfucker who's been following me around and _poking_ at me." Frank crossed his arms, leaning against the doorjamb.

"Fuck off. You're the one who started treating me like a fucking leper and wouldn't tell me what was wrong." Bob snapped his mouth closed before he started sounding whiny.

"So it's my fault that you were stalking me, because I decided to act like an adult instead of screaming at you? Oh, that's fucking rich." Frank shook his head, laughing incredulously.

"Scream at me about _what_?" Bob was so frustrated with not knowing what the hell had gone wrong that he forgot his lingering unease and got up in Frank's face.

Frank looked like he wanted to shove Bob away, but instead took a step back to avoid touching him. "Like you don't fucking know."

Bob actually fisted his hands in his hair and yelled inarticulately. Outside, there was a low rumble of thunder and lightning streaked across the sky. Bob's temper broke with the storm, and with a growl, he pushed Frank out into the sudden downpour.

Frank sputtered, shaking his head and glaring like a wet cat. "Mother _fucker_!" he yelled, grabbing Bob by the front of his hoodie and yanking him out into the rain.

"What the fuck, Frank?" Bob demanded, shoving Frank back by his shoulders.

The ground was quickly turning into a slippery mass of mud as the rain started coming down like a waterfall. Frank shoved him again and Bob lost his balance, pulling Frank down with him as his hands tangled in his shirt. Bob tried to roll on top of Frank but he squirmed away, and then they were both rolling through the mud, snarling at each other.

Bob didn't care that they were still on the venue grounds, or that anyone wandering away from the party could find them beating the hell out of each other. All he knew was the tension coiling tighter and tighter in him every time Frank slid out of his arms.

Frank did some sort of sneaky vampire ninja move and ended up kneeling astride Bob's chest, pinning his hands down with his knees. He was filthy, covered in mud and soaking wet, and his eyes were glowing gold in the dim light. He knotted his hands in Bob's hair and jerked his head back. He lunged forward, and for a brief second, Bob was truly afraid Frank was going for his throat.

So Frank kissing him came as a bit of a surprise.

Bob made a questioning noise, and Frank's tongue swept into his mouth, his hands tightening in Bob's hair. With his last remaining brain cells, Bob tried to remember that he was angry and shouldn't be letting Frank kiss him, but that would mean making him stop. And Bob most emphatically did not want to stop Frank's clever tongue and soft lips from fucking owning this kiss.

Bob groaned, deep in his chest, and managed to free one of his hands and grab Frank's ass. Frank growled and bit his lower lip, just hard enough to be painful and remind him of exactly how sharp Frank's fangs were and how easily he could rip out Bob's throat. The surge of lust that Bob felt at that thought was more than mildly disturbing. He used his grip on Frank's ass to pull him down so that he could rut against him. Frank's head dropped back at the feel of Bob's cock rubbing against his ass, and he was just distracted enough to let Bob flip him over onto his back.

Bob pinned Frank's hands, holding onto his wrists so that he couldn't squirm out of the hold as easily. Frank growled and opened his mouth a little, tasting the air like a cat. Bob would be lying if he said that wasn't hot as hell. He nudged Frank's head to the side and bit down on his neck, feeling the shuddering sigh that went through Frank's whole body. He leaned back, smirking the sight of Frank's half-open, sex-dark eyes.

Frank leaned up as far as he could with his hands pinned and kissed Bob again, all blunt teeth and tongue, dirtier than Bob had ever been kissed before. Frank wiggled beneath him, rolling his hips up, and Bob wedged his knees between Frank's, getting that much closer.

And it was suddenly like a switch had been flipped, as Frank went from relaxed and (somewhat) submissive to a whirlwind of motion, flipping Bob onto his back again, grabbing his t-shirt at the neck and ripping it in half. Frank was smiling dangerously, his fangs glinting in the faint reflected light of the parking lot lights. "You really have no idea, do you?"

"What?" Bob asked, but Frank was already shoving Bob's pants down his hips and taking Bob's cock into a surprisingly warm mouth, and Bob was just a little bit too distracted having his brains sucked out through his dick to remember that he'd been asking a question.

Bob dropped his head back onto the muddy ground with a growl and let the rain sting his eyes. It'd been an embarrassingly long time since he'd gotten laid. Oh, there were always opportunities on tour, but Bob was really fond of showering after. He couldn't stand the lingering scent of someone else clinging to his skin, and the primitive facilities on Warped made basic hygiene a challenge.  Not to mention, he couldn't exactly bring someone back to The Used's bus and risk running into Quinn.

But none of that mattered right now.

Bob dug his heels into the soft ground, trying to push up into Frank's mouth, but strong hands kept his hips pinned to the ground. He shuddered at the restraint, automatically going limp. Frank pulled off his dick and stared down at him for a second before shaking his head.

"You are full of surprises tonight."

Bob squirmed, his hands burying themselves in Frank's hair and rubbing at his scalp, not so much pushing him down as trying to convince him that down would be a good direction in which to move. Frank ignored his gentle coaxing, instead moving his mouth to the cut of Bob's hip and grazing his fangs along the skin. Not breaking it, but driving Bob crazy with the possibility that he _might_ bite. Bob's fight-or-flight instincts collided with his sexual instincts and quickly turned him into a panting, moaning mess of raw nerves.

Frank crawled up the length of Bob's body, crouching with his knees on either side of Bob's chest. He leaned over to whisper into Bob's ear, "I'm going to fuck you so hard." Bob shuddered, feeling his heart thumping in his chest. This wasn't how he'd pictured it being between the two of them, but Frank's sudden dominance was working for him. God, was it ever.

Frank knelt up a little, unbuttoning the fly of his jeans, his dark eyes steady on Bob's.

Bob kicked his legs, trying to get his jeans off without knocking Frank off of him. After weeks of Frank avoiding him, Bob was pretty sure he would fuck some shit up if they got interrupted. Frank finished struggling with the wet denim of his fly and crawled back down Bob's body, helping him get his jeans off before shoving his own down to his knees.

Frank leaned up and kissed him, stroking his hand over Bob's chest and up his neck until his fingers were sliding into Bob's mouth as they kissed. After a few messy seconds, Frank pulled back and Bob had to close his eyes at the look on his face as he watched his fingers slide into Bob's mouth.

It briefly occurred to Bob that there was a storage shed right next to them that they should probably move to before things got any more incriminating than two mostly-naked guys rolling around in the mud, but then Frank slid his slick fingers down the crack of Bob's ass and suddenly any thought more involved than _yesholyfuckmore_ was a lost cause.

It had been a very long time since Bob had done this. Generally, what skinny little rock boys wanted out of him was for Bob to bend them over and fuck their brains out, not the other way around. Still, it wasn't like he'd forgotten how or anything. Bob opened his eyes as two slick fingers slid into him, surprising an unguarded look of deep concentration and something else -- maybe possessiveness? -- on Frank's face. Frank's eyes burned into his as he slid another finger in and spread them slightly, twisting his hand a little. Bob gasped, his eyes closing involuntarily.

There was a hint of a dark smile in Frank's voice as he murmured, "Yeah, that's it right there."

Bob wanted to say something, anything, to distract himself from the way he was responding to Frank. It wasn't the sex -- or, rather, it wasn't _just_ the sex, it was the way he wanted to just give in, give himself over to Frank's keeping. It was a bad idea, a stupid idea because, even if Frank wasn't a vampire, this was just lust between them. Frank wanted him, sure, but not to keep.

They were never going to be mates.

Frank twisted his hand again and Bob's thoughts scattered. He dug one hand into the softened ground and fisted the other in the back of Frank's shirt, moaning, "Please."

Frank's eyes flared gold. He let out a shaky breath and dropped his head to Bob's shoulder, biting almost hard enough to break the skin. Bob could feel Frank getting control of himself, and by the time he raised his head again, Frank's eyes were no longer glowing. He kissed Bob, quickly but deeply, and then pushed his knees almost to his chest.

Bob took a deep breath, relaxing himself deliberately and preparing for a certain amount of pain considering their sloppy prep, but Frank's slow push into him was anything but painful. It felt -- like coming home, or something ridiculously sappy like that. Like a missing piece he hadn't even known was gone was slotting itself into place inside him.

Frank froze above him, his eyes flaring more golden than Bob had ever seen them before. He felt the word rumble through Frank's chest as he said, "Mine."

Bob could hear the subsonic growl in his own voice as he replied, "Pack." He had just enough control over himself not to add, _mate_.

That seemed to be enough for Frank, though, and he growled once more, leaning forward to nip at his mouth before starting to move forward again. Bob reached up to touch as much of Frank as he could reach from his pretzeled position, memorizing the texture of his skin and the feel of muscle and tendon. He rubbed his fingers over the hot skin on the back of his neck and scratched behind his ears.

Frank pushed his head into the caress, turning to kiss the inside of Bob's wrist before his own hands shot out and pinned Bob's to the ground next to his shoulders, tangling their fingers together. The easy possession of it took Bob's breath away and it made him wish he was on his belly for this. He couldn't stop himself from tipping his head back and leaving his throat totally unguarded.

Frank growled again, nuzzling the side of Bob's throat and dragging his fangs lightly along his jugular. From this position, Frank could rip out his throat too quickly for Bob to stop him, and it should have terrified Bob, but it didn't. It felt _right_.

He was so very fucked.

Frank pulled back slow enough to be torture, pushing back into Bob just as carefully. He kept his pace no matter how Bob moved, his head hanging between the pronounced blades of his shoulders and his eyes tight with concentration. It was only when Bob went from growling demands to pleading whines that he picked up the pace, gradually moving faster and harder until he was _slamming_ into Bob, hard enough that they were skidding slightly through the wet, muddy grass with each thrust. Bob's hands were still pinned and there was no way for him to get a hand down to help himself out, but he could already tell that he wouldn't need anything but the occasional brush of Frank's stomach against him.

Even though he _knew_ Frank got the upgraded package as a vampire, he was surprised at just how strong Frank was. His powerful, almost vicious strokes were hitting Bob's prostate every time, amping up the tension in the base of his spine and his balls, until it snapped and he was coming without ever being touched, shouting incoherently from the pleasure of it.

Bob felt like he was dissolving into the ground as he came down. Frank was still moving over him, in him, and he twitched from the overstimulation. He shuddered every time Frank rubbed over his prostate, torn between pressing up for more and trying to get away from the unrelenting sensation.

Just before too-much tipped over into pain, Frank shoved into him one last time, coming with a snarl. He held himself over Bob for a long moment, staring at him with nearly blank eyes, before unlocking his elbows and collapsing on Bob's chest.

It had stopped pouring at some point while Bob was too distracted to notice, calming down to a slow patter of rain against the sodden grass. He blinked rain out of his eyes, staring up into the sky, which was only semi-dark this close to a city. He had no idea how to deal with the surge of _mine_ and _pack_ \-- and most importantly, _mate_ \-- still pounding through his system. Frank wasn't his. Frank wasn't his pack; Frank wasn't even his _bandmate_ , much less anything more.  Bob had already been down this road with Quinn.  It hurt almost more than he could bear when Quinn dumped him, and he couldn't stand to set himself up for that kind of pain again.

Bob thumped his head against the muddy ground and tried not to think about it.

His sudden motion disturbed Frank, who rubbed his forehead against Bob's collarbone before lifting his head and smiling softly down at him. He shook his hands loose and brushed muddy fingers through Bob's hair as he leaned down to rub their mouths together. It wasn't quite a kiss; it was both more affectionate and more animal than that.

Frank nuzzled over Bob's chin, pressing his face into the curve of his neck, and Bob felt a bubble of panic well up in his chest. He wasn't worried about the proximity of a vampire to his jugular -- he wished it was that simple -- but rather the thought of driving away in the morning, heading towards his dusty apartment while Frank and the others got on a plane for Japan.

And who knew how long it would be before Bob saw them again? He had a short break before The Used went back on the road, and then... maybe he'd see Frank again next summer, if The Used and My Chem were both on Warped again. If Gerard didn't drink himself to death, if My Chem was even still a _band_ by next summer.

Bob couldn't deal with this. He wasn't strong enough to say goodbye and hope that maybe someday he'd see Frank again and Frank would still want to be with him. Bob wasn't sure how it was for vampires, but he was pretty sure Frank hadn't committed himself irrevocably to anything, not the way that Bob had. Frank still had other options; hell, beyond being a vampire, which some people (not Bob) considered to be the sexiest thing on earth, he was a _rock star_. And what the fuck was Bob? A sound guy. A tech. (One of "the help," part of Bob's brain added mockingly.)  God, hadn't he learned anything from the crash and burn of his relationship with Quinn?

Frank stretched luxuriously, rubbing his face against Bob's neck and chest, and made a startled noise as Bob abruptly pushed him off onto the muddy ground.

"What the fuck?"

Bob ignored him and started pulling on his muddy, ripped clothes. He had to get away before he did something crazy like beg Frank to let him tag along with them to Japan.  He had to leave before he could make himself -- what had Quinn called him?  Oh, yeah.  _Pathetic_.

"No, seriously, what the fuck, Bob?" Frank was sitting on his bare ass in the mud, his jeans still a tangled mass around his knees.

His t-shirt was a total loss, but Bob shoved it into the back of his pants anyway, not wanting to leave any sort of evidence of their insanity behind, and grabbed the poncho from where it was tangled on the door knob to the shed. He glanced at Frank again, trying not to notice the hurt building on his face. "I've got to go."

Frank frowned, "Go? Go where?"

Bob found his sneakers, completely caked in mud, and didn't even bother to try putting them on. Holding his shoes in one hand, he turned away, saying quietly over his shoulder, "I'll see you around."

" _What_?" Frank snapped. He scrambled to his feet and his hand came down on Bob's shoulder without warning, spinning him around. "You'll see me around? What the fuck -- I thought -- what the fuck are you even _doing_ , Bob?"

"I've just -- I've gotta go. Say goodbye to the guys for me," Bob said, feeling lower than dirt at the look of shock and hurt on Frank's face.

"Are you seriously just fucking taking off?" The hurt in Frank's eyes disappeared, eclipsed by rapidly growing rage. "Fuck you, Bob. Just -- _fuck_. _You_."

Frank buttoned his jeans and stomped off towards the bus village without looking back, practically radiating danger. Bob closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyelids, trying to convince himself he made the right decision by leaving Frank before Frank could leave him.

This sucked.

Leaving Frank behind already felt like losing a limb, but it was the right decision. It was. And eventually, Bob might even manage to convince himself.

Bob lifted his face to the cold needles of rain and did not -- did _not_ \-- howl.

***

 _INOK video shoot  
Mid-August, 2004_

If someone had asked Bob three weeks ago if he thought he'd ever be in California filming a video for My Chemical Romance _as their drummer_ , he probably would have punched whoever asked him such a stupid question right in the face. And yet? Here he was.

Bob kept on feeling like he was dreaming, until the pain of his broken ankle jarred him back to reality. He hadn't told anyone -- not even Brian -- that he had broken his ankle the other day doing some stupid stunt like a wet-behind-the-ears cub. It would heal soon enough, and it was a nice reminder to himself to stop being an impulsive dumbass when he was pissed off.

Like he was right at that moment, when Frank just looked through him like Bob wasn't even there.

He'd spent the last three weeks since the end of Warped angry at himself, at Frank, at the world. He'd drank too much, been a total douche to nearly everyone around him, and scared the shit out of Jepha -- Jepha! -- doing every damn stupid thing he was dared to.

He was tired of all of it. He wanted nothing more than to find a cozy den and curl up with his mate, surrounded by their pack, but that wasn't ever going to happen, so he just had to grit his teeth and pretend like this wasn't killing him.

When Bob considered things as rationally as he could -- that he was almost the official drummer for My Chemical Romance, that he was filming a major music video, that he was going to be playing live music in front of an actual audience in four days, that he didn't have to take Quinn's shit on a daily basis anymore -- he felt like a giant asshole for not being over the fucking moon with happiness. And part of him absolutely was, no question about it. It's just that another, equally vocal part of him wanted to rip Gerard a new asshole whenever Frank hovered around him, or brought him coffee, or touched him.

Bob thumped his head against the cinderblock wall of the school where they were filming. Jesus. He had to get a fucking grip.

He _knew_ there wasn't anything going on between them -- all he could smell between them was concern and brotherly affection -- but that didn't stop the growl that kept wanting to bubble up out of his chest every time Frank rubbed his hand across Gerard's shoulders. He'd made his choice and he wasn't going to ruin his chance or the band's shot because he was a jealous, possessive asshole.

He just needed Frank to look at him. Once.

Fortunately, Brian was too busy being run ragged trying to figure out how to change the video's script at the last minute to hide the fact that they'd been planning on having five band members in the school scenes to notice any weird vibes between Bob and Frank. Mikey was text-messaging constantly, looking exactly the same as he always did, except that Bob noticed that his hands were shaking as he typed. Ray looked overwhelmed, concerned for Gerard and nervous about the video shoot. Gerard was white-faced and sweating under his make-up, holding onto a cup of coffee and a cigarette like lifelines.

And Frank... Frank looked gorgeous, tired, and angry, and Bob wanted to hold onto him and never let him go, even though he knew that Frank would rather punch him in the face than speak to him right now.  And the worst part was?  Frank would have every right to.

Bob had had some time, over the past three miserable weeks, to contemplate exactly how badly he'd fucked up with Frank.  He'd told himself that he was leaving Frank before Frank could leave him, but... that was bullshit.  The truth of the matter was, Bob had been scared shitless that he'd fuck things up as badly with Frank as he'd fucked things up with Quinn.  And he'd let that fear push him into acting like a massive asshole.

Bob pretty much wanted to punch himself in the face right now.

He knew that following Frank outside for a cigarette break while Gerard was filming a scene was not one of his best ideas. But Bob kind of specialized in bad ideas, these days.

Bob caught up with Frank behind the gym, where he stood with his arms crossed, smoking angrily.

"Hey," Bob said. He fumbled a cigarette out of a pack just to have something to do with his hands.

Frank narrowed his eyes and blew a thin stream of smoke directly into Bob's face before turning around to stare at the crew running around the football field.

"Come on, Frank." Bob was surprised how much it hurt for Frank to turn his back on him. Not just emotional pain, but actual knife-in-the-gut, catch-his-breath pain.

"Fuck off, Bob."

Even though the words and tone weren't exactly welcoming, Frank was at least talking to him again. "Just let me explain."

Frank snorted, "What's to explain? You made yourself pretty clear after we -- after."

"I didn't -- I couldn't--" Bob shoved a hand through his hair, trying to think how to explain himself. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he said weakly.

"Oh yeah? Well, good job with that," Frank said, smiling with fake enthusiasm.

"Listen, Frank, I--"

"No, you fucking listen," Frank said, poking Bob aggressively in the chest. "I don't want to hear whatever bullshit story you've come up with to explain away your being a gigantic fucking asshole. Save if for someone who gives a rat's ass. All that I want from you is for you to stay the hell out of my way."

Frank stomped off before Bob could answer, sending another shaft of pain twisting through his chest. Leaving Frank alone was absolutely the last thing on earth Bob wanted to do, but he was powerless to deny a direct request of this magnitude from his mate.

Shit. Fuck. Dammit.

Bob leaned against the building and tried to breathe through the panic battering at him. He was fine. He could do this. If this was the only thing he could do to make his mate happy, then he'd fucking grin and do it. He would keep his head down, practice the drums until he couldn't feel his hands, and stay off of Frank's radar.

And every second of it would suck.  But it was nothing more than he deserved.

***

 _Midwest  
Late August, 2004_

Bob had never considered himself much of an actor. He never had the energy or the stomach for that sort of bullshit. Oh, he knew how to keep up enough of a front to keep people from guessing he was a mythical beast, but that was about it.

So he wasn't exactly surprised when someone asked him point-blank what was wrong. He was surprised, however, by the fact that it was Gerard who was asking.

Sober Gerard was a very different creature from drunk Gerard. Bob had never realized back then exactly how much the alcohol was muffling Gerard's supernaturalness. He kind of wondered if that wasn't part of why Gerard had spent the past three years drunk.

"Bob," Gerard greeted him quietly, hunching his shoulders against the early morning chill. Gerard had a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, as he always did these days. "You're up early."

Bob shrugged, lighting a cigarette. The air had that still, pre-dawn hush to it. Even the idling bus engines seemed quieter than usual. "Yeah, couldn't sleep."

Gerard swirled his coffee and seemed to be enthralled by the oily designs floating on its surface. "You haven't been sleeping much lately."

"Lots of shows, lots of rehearsal, lots of changes." All of those things were true and Bob hoped that would be enough to keep Gerard from poking at him anymore.

"Hmm," Gerard made an agreeing noise into his coffee and Bob felt his shoulders drop a fraction. He brought his cigarette up to take a drag, but froze when Gerard turned his head to look at him. "But that's not why you aren't sleeping, is it?"

Bob made himself take a calm drag off his cigarette before answering, totally chill, "It's a lot of changes to get used to. A lot different from when I was just the sound guy." And if he was lucky, Gerard wouldn't even notice that Bob hadn't actually answered his question. But when was Bob ever that lucky?

"That's part of the problem, but not the heart of it," Gerard said, blowing steam off the top of his coffee. The steam formed crazy swirls and dragon-like shapes in the air before dissipating. Sober Gerard had an unnerving tendency to create illusions without checking to make sure that there weren't any normal people around first. Bob glanced around reflexively, but they were the only two people on the tour stupid enough to be up before dawn when they didn't need to be.  
   
"Gerard... It's just -- It's not good, but I'm handling it. It's nothing that's going to affect the band, not if I can help it. I swear," Bob said, meeting Gerard's gaze and trying to show his sincerity in his eyes.

"I believe you. But sometimes, it turns out that what you think you need and what you actually need are nowhere even near the same." Gerard blew more steam off the top of his coffee, creating two tiny steam-dragons. They clawed and hissed, ripping holes in each other's wings. The little dragons slowly calmed down and began to move closer together, until their long necks were intertwined into the shape of a heart. "It's like the Teleri and the Nandor, you know?"

Bob sighed. He hated it when Gerard started in with the geek shit. "No, Gerard, I have no idea, because I didn't spend the eighties playing D&D."

"It's not D&D it's _Tolkien_." How Gerard managed to sound so scandalized with a smoke tucked into the corner of his mouth was a mystery to Bob.

Bob wrinkled his nose. "I've seen the movies?"

Gerard opened his mouth to talk twice before obviously reining in his impulse to launch into an hour-long lecture on Tolkien, his elves, their role in the history of Middle Earth, and, probably, a comparison to real Fae history and culture. "You hurt my soul, Bob."

Bob shrugged. "And yet you're the one who keeps coming to me for info on Viking weapons and shit. I know, I know -- it's for a _comic_."

"Also me and Mikey were thinking about maybe starting up a Viking campaign," Gerard added, chewing on a cuticle pensively. "Anyway, I had a point."

Bob laughed, he couldn't help it. "Really?"

Teasing Gerard about his rambling was like water off a duck's back -- he didn't even seem to notice it most of the time. Gerard took a deep drag off his cigarette, trying and completely failing to blow a smoke ring. "Okay, so it's like that time when Face and Murdock... wait, no, wrong episode. Anyway. Sometimes two people expect different things from a relationship, or maybe they expect the same thing but they just don't understand what the other person is thinking. And sometimes both of them are talking but neither of them are listening."

All the talk of "relationships" gave Bob a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.  He wanted to head Gerard off before he got it into his head to interfere or, god forbid, matchmake. "I know we've been...weird lately, but there's nothing going on between me and Frank."

" _Bob_ ," Gerard said reproachfully, face scrunched up like the time he'd tasted unsweetened lemonade. "I suppose you believe Quinn just snapped and broke it off with you for no real reason, too?"

"Well, yeah."

Gerard pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something that sounded like _thousand year old teenager_.  Bob was suddenly afraid all this stupid drama was jeopardizing his place in the band. He was the FNG -- the fucking new guy -- after all.

"Gerard, I swear this won't be an issue. You know how much I love the band --"

"I trust you with my band, Bob." The completely thoughtless way Gerard waved that away made Bob so happy that it was all he could to bite down his grin. Gerard swallowed down the rest of his coffee and shoved his cigarette into the corner of his mouth before gripping Bob's head between his hands, saying earnestly, "I just don't trust you with yourself."

Bob could feel himself gaping at the sheer pot-kettle of that statement and didn't protest when Gerard squished his cheeks together before bouncing up and turning back towards the buses. Gerard looked back over his shoulder after a few steps and the early morning sunlight seemed to make him glow. "I won't let you make yourself miserable, Bob. This is all just a stupid misunderstanding and you should fix it.

Before I tell Jamia."

Well, shit.

***

 _West Coast  
Early September, 2004_

The next week was pretty much torture. On top of the stress of practicing and performing, and doing it all without showing that his fucking heart was in bloody tatters, Bob was also trying to work up the balls to tell Frank that he -- y'know, cared about him. And stuff.

Bob shoved his hand through his hair, growling quietly. Fuck. How the fuck was he going to tell Frank that Bob had bonded to him as his mate, when he couldn't even say it in his own head without feeling like a moron?

And on top of everything else, he had Gerard's well-meant but very real threat to tell Jamia what was going on if Bob couldn't handle it himself soon. Fuck.

Every morning Bob woke up with the determination that today was the day, and he went to bed every night kicking himself for being a stupid fucking coward. Seriously, the diner not having Frank's preferred brand of veggie burgers was not a valid reason for putting off his big revelation.

 _Right. Confess to mystical bonding today. No excuses accepted._ Bob finished his pep talk to himself in the disgusting venue bathroom mirror with a decisive nod. He tried not to think about how Frank had been vaguely nauseous and cranky all day and pushed out the door and through the milling crowd backstage towards their bus.

It was a hotel night tonight, which meant that Bob really didn't have any more excuses for putting the conversation off. He'd mentioned to Gerard that he needed a little privacy to talk to Frank, which hopefully meant that Gerard had swapped around room assignments so that Bob and Frank would be sharing. Judging by the way that Gerard winked at him as he came onboard the bus, Bob was thinking that Gerard had arranged it successfully. Either that or he had an eyelash stuck in his eye.

They had a short drive to the hotel. Frank was apparently feeling better, if the way that he was giggling and snuggling with Gerard was any indication. Bob sighed and told himself that feeling jealous of Frank being affectionate with Gerard wasn't at all rational. It didn't really help. By the time that they got to the hotel, Bob was feeling raw with jealousy, because Frank hadn't just been snuggling with Gerard -- no, he'd been draped over everyone on the bus with a pulse. Except for Bob.

By the time that they got up to the hotel room, Bob was beginning to wonder if Frank was drunk. He'd just giggled at the news that he and Bob were sharing a room, and on the ride up on the elevator, Frank had actually swayed against Bob and started nuzzling his shoulder. That was more physical contact with Bob than Frank had allowed in what felt like forever. Bob drank it up like a man dying of thirst.

He knew he shouldn't be ignoring the blatant signs that something was wrong with Frank, but it just felt so right to have him pressed up against his back as Bob tried to make the stupid electronic key work. He stumbled into the room, tripping over Frank's feet and his own duffel bag. He lost contact as he tried to regain his footing and ended up leaning against the wall next to the light switch.

He flicked the light on and recoiled back when he realized Frank's eyes were reflecting silver and the razor-sharp tips of his fangs were visible beneath the curve of his lip.

"Frank?"

Frank tilted his head to the side and opened his mouth slightly, scenting the air. His body was unnaturally still, the stillness of a predator. Bob felt his heartbeat speed up, adrenalin flooding his system. "Frank," he tried again.

Frank moved so fast that he almost blurred as he went for Bob's throat. Bob barely got his arms up in time to hold him off, grabbing Frank by his collar. Frank pushed against his hold, growling. Bob shook him a little, yelling quietly, "Frank!"

Frank stilled. Bob took a chance and let go of Frank's collar with one hand, putting his hand on Frank's cheek. "Frank? Dude, you're freaking me out here."

He leaned his face into Bob's hand, grumbling wordlessly under his breath, nuzzling his palm. Bob blinked. "...the hell, Iero?"

Bob tipped his face up into the light and swore viciously at what he saw. Frank's eyes were so dilated they were completely black, and his fangs were down. That was beyond abnormal -- Bob could _still_ count the number of times he'd seen Frank's fangs on one hand. Bob shook him again, getting a low, nearly subsonic growl as an answer. "OK, then. I suppose you're going to try to bite me if I let go of you?"

Frank pushed against his grip, still growling and sniffing the air around them.

Bob took a second to wish that tonight had been a bus night. A hotel, at this point, was just a big box full of potential vampire victims. Bob felt guilty thinking it, but he was glad Frank was just a sickly little vegan vampire, because him going into this -- whatever this was, bloodlust or whatever -- when he was at full strength?

Yeah, no. Bob wasn't sure he'd even be able to restrain him if that were the case.

And he was going to have to keep Frank restrained somehow. Maybe on the bed? He was going to have to hold onto Frank anyway, so he might as well be semi-comfortable while doing it. He adjusted his grip on Frank but wasn't quick enough, and Frank dodged back out of Bob's reach. He didn't seem at all interested in heading for the door, but Bob found that a cold comfort in the face of 140 pounds of growling vampire. He shifted enough to block the door anyway and Frank mirrored his movements, easing closer with each step. Bob shivered, his hackles rising, as he realized Frank was stalking him around the small room like a panther or something. The comparison was enough to spur Bob into action, even with the threat of violence hanging around Frank like a cloud. Bob grimaced and rushed Frank, pushing him back towards the bed.

Dammit, he did not remember signing up for vampire-wrangling duties when he joined this band.

Instead of trying to escape, Frank wrapped himself around Bob and tried to pull him down onto the bed with him. "What the fuck?" Bob muttered. As soon as Bob settled onto the bed with him, Frank eeled around, going for his neck again.

"Goddammit, Frankie!" Bob caught him by the shoulder and neck, wrestling Frank face down on the mattress, his hands twisted in the small of his back.

This was beyond fucked up and Bob was going to _kill_ whoever did this to Frank.  He'd obviously been dosed with something.

Frank was panting, open-mouthed, his head turned slightly to the side so that Bob could see one eye, pupil still blown black, and the glint of a sharp fang.

"What the hell's going on here, Frankie?"

No response. Bob wasn't even sure Frank understood what he was saying.

He leaned over Frank, one hand holding Frank's wrists at the small of his back and a leg thrown across the back of Frank's legs to help hold him down, "Frank," he said quietly, leaning so close that his hair brushed Frank's temple. "C'mon, man. Frank."

Frank stilled as he got closer and even Bob couldn't tell if it was the stillness of a predator or prey. Bob stayed where he was for a long moment, waiting to see if Frank was going to fight again, but Frank held himself motionless except for the slow tilt of his head that let the cool skin of his temple rest against Bob's lips.

That contact seemed to relax him a little and Bob pressed his mouth to the skin stretched thin there.

Bob shifted a little and that seemed to break whatever calm Frank had managed.  He had to jerk back to avoid the snap of Frank's teeth.  "Goddammit! Knock it off!"

Frank exploded into motion, twisting his hands out of Bob's grip and lunging at Bob's neck again. Bob wasn't sure if he was going to be able to get a grip on Frank again -- he was fast and strong and his small size worked to his advantage in wrestling. Luckily, Frank was more interested in getting at Bob's neck than in escaping, so eventually Bob got him pinned again. He was stretched out on top of Frank, holding wrists above his head, and this was just fucking fabulous, that the only way he could get Frank in his bed again was for Frank to basically be out of his mind and homicidal.

"Stay put, goddammit!" Bob almost yelled. Frank just blinked up at him and did the freaky tasting-the-air thing again, like a fucking snake or something.

Frank was growling again. Maybe. It was a growly noise, but it wasn't making the hair on the back of Bob's neck stand up like before. Between that and the way he was scenting the air, Bob almost felt like he had a wild animal pinned, not a tiny, drugged vampire. It was entirely fucked up and he let his head drop forward just a little. He was careful to keep any soft spots out of Frank's range, but he just needed a moment to collect himself.

Make a plan.

Something.

After a few seconds he felt a weird tugging and tipped his head up a couple of inches. Frank had a chunk of his hair in his mouth and was chewing on it a little.

"OK, seriously. What the fuck?"

He pulled away without thinking about it and Frank made a small, unhappy noise when the strands of Bob's hair slipped out of his mouth. Whining quietly, he strained his neck up to try to reach Bob's arm where it was propped by his head, pinning Frank's arm. Carefully, just in case Frank was sneakily trying to go for the artery on the inside of his elbow, Bob shifted his arm just enough for Frank to reach. Frank closed his eyes and rubbed his cheek against the inside of Bob's arm, growling under his breath.

Bob stared at him, flabbergasted, and his weight must have shifted or something, because suddenly Frank had one leg free and, instead of trying to throw Bob off, wrapped it around his waist instead. Frank pulled Bob down on top of him and squirmed until he was comfortable under Bob's weight. He wasn't hard, thank fuck, because Bob knew he'd never forgive himself if he took advantage of Frank in this state. Once he was settled, Frank went back to rubbing his face against Bob's arm. After a couple of minutes, he turned and craned his head towards Bob's other arm, whining in the back of his throat.

Bob shifted until Frank could reach, still not trusting him enough to let go of his wrists. Their new position put some of Bob's hair back in range and Frank caught a chunk of it in his mouth, chewing carefully around his fangs once he finished rubbing his face on Bob's arm.

"This... is definitely the weirdest thing you've ever done, Frankie. And you've done a _lot_ of weird shit, man."

Apparently done with chewing on Bob's hair, Frank grumbled under his breath and craned his neck up again. He didn't seem to be preparing to lunge for Bob's neck again, so Bob carefully and warily dropped his head down until his cheek brushed Frank's.

Frank growled happily and rubbed his cheek against Bob's, his stubble scratching against Bob's beard. Bob sighed, relaxing a little but trying not to drop his guard too much. He rearranged their arms until they were both a little more comfortable.

Frank was still making little happy growling noises in his ear and slowly rubbing his cheek against the side of Bob's face. "How the hell did my life get so weird?" Bob mumbled, laughing helplessly.

Frank rubbed his cheek up over Bob's forehead and down to the opposite side. Bob shivered a little at the sensation of stubble against the skin above his own beard, and Frank paused before running the tip of his nose up the bridge of Bob's. He nosed delicately around Bob's eyes before twisting his head and trying to rub against Bob's chin and neck.

Bob pulled back quickly when he realized what Frank wanted, his chin dropping automatically to protect his neck. Frank growled a little at being thwarted and strained up towards Bob, who pulled back even farther when Frank bared his teeth in frustration.

Frank dropped back onto the pillows after a moment of fruitless struggle. His pupils were still blown, but he deliberately closed his mouth around his fangs and slowly leaned up again.

Bob closed his eyes for a second, hoping he wasn't about to make a really, really stupid mistake. He adjusted his grip so that he could hold both Frank's wrists in one hand and slid the other behind his neck, gently fisting a hand in his hair and letting himself move forward until Frank pushed his forehead into the curve of Bob's neck. "If you bite me, I will fucking kill you."

Frank went bizarrely silent, and Bob still wasn't sure he actually understood a word he's been saying, but he seemed to understand body language just fine. Frank kept his mouth well away from Bob's neck, rubbing against him with his forehead and the bridge of his nose instead. He took deep breaths through his nose, the wordless growls and grumbles muffled now that he was keeping his mouth clamped closed.

Bob was trying to remember if he'd ever heard _anything_ about vampires acting like this, but he kept coming up empty-handed. Sure, vampires went out of control and left bloody carnage in their wake from time to time, but he'd never heard of a vampire flipping out and then acting like a big, affectionate cat instead of trying to rip someone's throat out.

Frank seemed to be winding down a little, the thrumming tension seeping out of his body. His eyes, when Bob pulled back enough to get a look, were only slightly dilated. Frank yawned widely, showing razor-sharp fangs, then closed his mouth again and blinked sleepily up at Bob. It was a look Bob had seen countless times, in hotel rooms and on the bus, the look that said Frankie was about to go unconscious for a while. He was still fanged-out, though -- Bob could see the tips of his fangs just peeking out from underneath his upper lip.

He leaned up one last time to rub his forehead -- hard -- down the length of Bob's neck before dropping back onto the bed and falling asleep between one moment and the next. Bob waited until he was sure Frank was actually out before loosening his hand from around Frank's wrists. There was already a dark circle of bruises forming. Bob brushed his thumbs over them gently before sliding off Frank's body to the sliver of mattress next to him. He thought about rolling out of the bed -- maybe sleeping in the other bed or staring at the television -- but as soon as he moved, Frank rolled towards him, winding an arm around his chest and locking his ankles around Bob's leg.

Bob was pretty sure he could get free if he really tried, but the sheer _weirdness_ of the night had left him sort of drained.

Besides, it felt like heaven to be curled up in bed with his mate, even though everything else about the situation was completely fucked.

Bob closed his eyes and fell into a deep, restful sleep.

****

The sound of the AC kicking on woke him up the next morning. Bob fumbled slowly out of sleep, becoming aware that he had a strangely cool-feeling body draped across his chest. Before he could totally freak out, last night came flooding back to him -- Frank trying to rip out his throat, Frank smelling him and rubbing his face all over him, Frank falling asleep wrapped around him.

Bob must have moved or made a noise or something, because he could feel Frank wake up.

"Mnuh?" Frank mumbled, raising his head from Bob's chest and blinking at him, confused.

He was squinting a little, like he was hung over, and he obviously wasn't tracking since he didn't automatically tear into Bob for being all snuggled up to him. He shook his head to clear it, not paying any attention to how his hand was still twisted up in Bob's t-shirt. "What the fuck, Bob?"

Bob pulled Frank's head up a little farther so he could get a better look at him. "How do you feel?"

The tone of Bob's voice must have clued Frank into the fact that something had happened for them to end up in the same hotel room, and he obviously took stock before answering, "I feel a little weird. It's -- I don't know. Just weird. What the hell happened?"

"You -- I don't know. You kind of went out of control." Frank's body tensed instantly and Bob hurried to reassure him, "You didn't hurt anyone. You just, uh, tried to bite me. A little."

Frank sounded miserable. "Oh, fuck. I don't remember anything. Did I attack any of the others?"

"No, just me. And you didn't even really -- listen, you tried to bite me a couple times, but then you, I don't know, sort of calmed down? You were sniffing me and rubbing your face against me. It was kinda weird, yeah, but it's okay. Nobody got hurt."

Frank got a really weird expression on his face when Bob mentioned rubbing his face against him. "Fuck." He took a deep breath, rolling to sit on the edge of the bunk, and rubbed his hands across his face. "I don't even know what happened. The last thing I remember is drinking some tea."

"Tea? It's eleven million degrees outside, Frank."

Frank waved his hand, "It's eighty, ass. I was being polite, anyway. That tech at the venue? The one that smelled like hay? He saw me nearly puke and said his girlfriend made him tea for his stomach."

"You remember what the tea smelled like?"

Frank nodded, "Yeah, kind of grassy."

"Don't drink anything that smells like that ever again." Frank rolled his eyes at him, but Bob was already scrounging around for his cellphone. "I'm gonna call Brian, ask him to get venue management to track down that tech, ask him what the hell his girlfriend put in that fucking tea."

"Hey, Bob?" Frank's hand shot out and stopped him from opening his phone, "Thanks."

Bob basked in the praise and implied forgiveness in his mate's voice and demeanor for a minute before shaking himself and getting back to the important work of tracking down what the fuck happened and killing some assholes. It took a few hours, but they eventually got it figured out -- the tea was some herbal thing, perfectly safe for humans, but apparently not for vampires -- and that would have been the end of it, except that Frank was being fucking _weird_ now.

He was being pretty subtle about it, for Frank, but it was a pretty big change from the cold shoulder he had been giving Bob. Plus, Bob was a werewolf. He was fucking observant, and it would be hard for him to miss that Frank kept wandering by him and surreptitiously sniffing him, or doing the open-mouthed smell/taste thing if no one else was looking. And Frank was being kind of, well... territorial. He'd actually growled at a couple of fans who got a little overly-affectionate with Bob.

Bob let it go for a while. He figured it was a weird Frank thing that he'd get over in a few days, but when Frank growled at a _thirteen year old girl_ , he figured enough was enough.

Bob was supposed to be rooming with Ray that night, but he convinced Brian to switch with him. He ambushed Frank the second he closed the door, crowding him against the wall. "What's going on, Frank?"

"Nothing. What the fuck?" Frank tried to push past him but Bob grabbed his shoulders, slammed him into the wall, and held him there.

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. You've been weird as fuck for days. You made a girl practically _cry_. Now tell me what the hell is going on," Bob said, shaking Frank by the shoulders. He didn't want to bring up the way Frank was actually paying attention to him now, afraid if he did that Frank would go back to ignoring him.

"Nothing," Frank said again, his voice deeper and rougher than before. His head was tipped back, exposing his neck, and he was tasting the air again.

"That! Right there!" Bob gestured towards Frank's face. "You've been doing that since the whole tea thing."

Frank made a dismissive gesture, but Bob cut him off before he could start talking, "No, shut up. You knew something was going on when I told you about the rubbing thing. And the hair."

Frank opened his mouth once, then closed it for a second before continuing, "Hair?"

"You were chewing on my hair, you giant freak."

"I just can't resist your emo bangs, Bobert." Frank smirked, but Bob didn't even react to that, just stared at him until Frank started twitching. "I don't know, I guess your Herbal Essences shampoo must drive me wild or something."

He knew there was more to it than that, but he really didn't want to disturb the ceasefire they'd seemed to have declared since Frank got dosed. He knew Frank, though, and knew he'd break at some point in the future, so he just frowned and scrubbed his hand through Frank's hair before going to take advantage of all the hot water he could desire.

Bob could wait. He was a patient wolf, after all.


	4. Clouds Across the Moon Pt 4/4

_Midwest  
Mid-March, 2005_

Things settled down after that, for the most part. Bob and Frank were friends again, which seemed to reassure the rest of the band. Tension that Bob hadn't even been consciously been aware of dissolved the first time that Frank threw himself on Bob's shoulders, demanding a piggyback ride. Bob was the happiest he'd ever been, being part of the band -- part of the pack -- and playing drums in front of screaming audiences every night. And if he found himself longing for Frank's touch, in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep... it was okay, really. He could live like this, so close to his mate and yet so far, and be happy. Really.

The only real problem (aside from the constant, burning desire to tug Frank closer), was his desire to _do things_ for Frank. Like his laundry or restringing his guitar.

Or feeding him as much werewolf blood as he could handle.

He'd never had a mate bond before so he wasn't exactly sure how much of this need was due to that and how much was because of the distance he was constantly forcing himself to maintain. Either way, he knew Frank would not respond well.

Well, maybe to the laundry.

Frank was acting mostly normal -- chain-smoking, demanding piggyback rides, writhing around onstage while playing his guitar like he was having sex -- the usual for Frank. But occasionally Bob would be setting up his drums, or whatever, and he'd feel an itching sensation under his skin, like someone was staring at him. And he'd look up, and 9 times out of 10 he'd find Frank in the near vicinity, acting like he hadn't even noticed that Bob was there. Except that once in a while Bob caught him staring at him, Frank's eyes unfocused and his mouth slightly open, tasting the air. Bob didn't say anything about it, not wanting to rock the boat. But it gave him hope that Frank wasn't entirely indifferent to him.

And then Frank got sick.

Not just sniffles and coughing sick, either. Full on feverish, hallucinating, gasping-for-breath sick. He soldiered on through two shows, but when he collapsed just off stage, Brian put his foot down and had him in a hospital bed before he'd even regained consciousness enough to argue.

Brian knew -- he always knew, somehow -- how to find hospitals that had secret wards for supernatural creatures and doctors who would do housecalls for vampires and werewolves. Mostly Frank managed to get by with OTC stuff or Brian finding him herbal stuff that worked, but for the first time since Bob had joined the band, Frank was sick enough to need to be rushed to the hospital.

Frank was wan and washed out and _sick_ looking and Bob -- well, he wanted to tear something apart -- but he mostly just wanted Frank to be well. Strong.

And Frank had been sick before, he got sick all the time really, but Bob had never seen him look this bad. He sat down next to Frank's bed and took his hand in his. Frank's fingers were icy cold. "Hey," Bob said, trying to sound reassuring, or at least less like he wanted to rip the place apart.

"Hey." Frank was all wheezy and quiet, like he didn't even have the energy to be loud. "There will be no taking advantage of my weakened state. Any promises made while I'm in this bed are non-binding. Band rules."

"So if I talk you into promising not to climb on my fucking drums anymore...?"

"Nope, sorry," Frank said with a pale imitation of his usual shit-eating grin. "Doesn't count."

"Shit."

"Heh."

Joking around so Frank couldn't see how close to losing his shit he was, Bob asked, "When are you going to stop being a pussy and get out of bed?"

Frank started laughing, but it turned into deep, wracking coughs that sounded like he was about to cough his lungs right out of his body. Bob's whole body ached with the need to kill something, but there was no enemy here for him to fight. Eventually, Frank's coughing trailed off and he mumbled, "Sucks."

"Seriously," Bob said. "How the hell do you get pneumonia when you're _undead_?"

"Not undead, jackass," Frank paused to wheeze, "just life-challenged. And it's just a fucking cold, everyone should stop freaking out about it."

"Bullshit, Frankie," Bob said wearily. He had eavesdropped on the doctor's conversation with Brian and knew it was more than just a cold. Though, honestly, how a fucking vampire managed to catch pneumonia was a mystery for the ages. He was thinking about finding someone to start working on a new concoction for Frank. Something with zinc and vitamin C and shit.

Frank's breathing evened out and he squeezed Bob's hand reassuringly. "Hey. Stop looking like somebody shot your dog. Wait, do werewolves even like dogs? I always wanted to get a dog. A little dog, like a beagle." He had to stop every couple of words to catch his breath.

Bob glared at him. "Stop trying to change the subject."

"There was a subject?" Frank blinked at him, looking innocent.

"When are you getting well?" Bob put his hand on Frank's face, stopping him from looking away.

Frank shrugged, "They've got me on an IV with synthetic hemoglobin. It's not as effective as human blood, but it'll eventually work."

Bob could feel his jaw clench. He tried to respect Frank's beliefs, even if he thought a vegan vampire was beyond ridiculous, but Frank was _sick_. He kept _getting_ sick because he refused to even snack on a bunny.

"You're going to miss some shows," Bob said, trying out a guilt trip. The expression of pure misery that crossed Frank's face made him feel like a complete asshole, though.

"Yeah, I know. I talked with Brian. Cortez is going to cover for me." A brief spasm of coughing shook Frank.

"You know if you would just drink a little human blood -- there are donors--"

"Shut the fuck up, Bryar." Frank's scowl lost a lot of its power when his eyes were all bloodshot and his nose was red.

"It's just --"

"Forget it. I don't _do_ that. I just. Don't."

"Frankie, come on," Bob said quietly. "I know you have your principles, and I respect them, but you're _sick_. You're really, really sick."

"I get sick all the time. I get better."

"Yeah, you do get sick. All the time."

"Fuck you."

"Frank --"

"No, shut up, Bob. You don't get it."

"I get that you don't want to --"

"Oh, I _want_ to. Every second of every day. That's the problem."

 _Shit_. And now Bob felt like a bigger asshole than ever because that was something he'd heard before from every recovering addict he'd ever known. He'd never offer an addict a drink, or a line, or whatever it was that they were addicted to, and yet he was doing just that to Frank because he couldn't bear not to.

"I eavesdropped on Brian and the doctor," Bob said quietly. "He said you're not going to recover all the way without real blood. Even after you're back on your feet, you're still going to be weaker than you should be."

Frank shrugged, "I'm always weaker than I should be." He paused to cough, then mumbled, "And that's a good thing."

"The fuck it is!" It was anathema to Bob. Frank should be strong, powerful. He was already, of course, but even more so.

"What would have happened if I'd been full strength when I'd been dosed?"

Bob wanted to say that the end would have been the same, but he remembered how Frank's first instinct had been to go for his throat. He remembered tangling with a vampire a couple hundred years after he'd been bitten, how it was pure luck that he'd survived. Everything he was thinking must have been written all over his face because Frank just said, "Yeah."

Bob put his elbows on the mattress and dropped his face into his hands. "I hate this."

Frank carded his fingers through Bob's hair, not saying anything. Bob tilted his head to the side, sighing.

After a few minutes, Frank said slowly, "I'm sorry. I know dealing with me kind of sucks. I feel shitty about it, because it's not even worth the trouble --"

"No!" Bob's head shot up and he hardly even winced when he lost a few strands of hair to Frank's tangled fingers. "Frank, no. That's bullshit."

Frank sort of smiled, but it was obvious he didn't really believe him. Bob pushed his fingers into Frank's lank hair and almost leaned forward to kiss him. He gained control of himself at the last second and covered by flicking Frank in the middle of his forehead. "Dumbass."

"Ow, my head, you big bully."

Bob had known Frank long enough to tell when he was actually hurt, and when he was just whining for the hell of it. The secret to telling the difference was that, when he was actually, really hurt, Frank kept his mouth shut and did the whole stoic act. Bob _would_ find that annoying, but it really would have been a matter of pot, meet kettle.

"Seriously." Bob took a deep breath, steeling himself. Fuck, he hated trying to talk about emotions. He always sounded like a moron. "You're not -- you're never too much trouble for me, okay? Never."

Frank's smile was real this time, if tired, and he settled back into the bed, trapping Bob's hand under the side of his face. "Okay." Frank turned his head and nuzzled the tendons on the inside of Bob's wrist, mumbling, "You're not too much trouble for me either."

Bob could feel himself smiling dopily at him, but he didn't try to stop it even though he knew he looked like a doofus. He didn't even want to. "Good," he said.

Frank sighed, settling back into the bed. "Gonna sleep now."

"You want me to--" Bob started shifting, preparing to stand up, but Frank shot out a hand and grabbed his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip considering he looked like death warmed over.

"Stay."

Bob hesitated, but dropped back into his chair when he saw Frank's big, sad eyes.

"No, come on," Frank tugged weakly at his wrist, "up here."

"Frank --" Bob cut himself off when Frank pulled again and tried to shuffle over to make room for him on the narrow bed. "I won't fit on there with you."

"But I'm cold, Bob! And you're my own personal hot water bottle." Frank collapsed back against his pillows, the brief struggle obviously too much for him.

"Jesus, fine." Bob carefully moved Frank over and climbed onto the squeaky bed, "If you fall out, you'll only have yourself to blame."

"Mmmmkay," Frank mumbled, already dropping off again. Bob sighed and wrapped his arms around Frank, carefully avoiding all the tubes and wires that were attached to him.

Frank murmured in his sleep and turned his head blindly, pushing his cheek against Bob's shoulder. Bob breathed in Frank's scent, underneath the overlay of hospital stink. He smelled like home.

It was subtle torture, being able to hold his mate, feel him with his whole body, breathe his air, and yet know that this wasn't his to keep. Frank was being a lot more friendly these days, yeah, but he would never have asked Bob to share his bed if he hadn't been so sick he could barely breathe. Bob had to accept that this was all that he got.

But there was a small, stubborn part of him that was beginning to hope that maybe -- just maybe...

Bob buried his face in Frank's hair and fell asleep to the faint sound of his heartbeat.

***

 _GOY video shoot  
May, 2005_

The second morning of the Ghost of You video shoot dawned cold and grey. Not threatening to rain at all, but overcast in that smog-filled Californian way.  They were set to film the storming of the beach today, starting out on a replica WWII landing craft. ("Higgins boat," Ray kept insisting.)  It was going to be a long fucking day.

Bob shivered as he got on the boat, the chill wind off the water whipping right through the itchy fabric of his uniform. His face felt naked without the familiar covering of beard and he had to stop himself from reaching up to rub at the oddly smooth skin of his cheek. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gone completely beardless. It might actually have been since the 1940s, now that he thought about it.

Gerard and Mikey grunted at him, shuffling onto the boat together. Neither one of them were morning people despite the obscene amounts of caffeine they both consumed. (Bob was fairly sure it wasn't a faerie thing so much as it was a Way thing.) Ray was disgustingly chipper, grinning cheerfully and asking a bored-looking tech questions about the boat. And last of all came Frank, white-lipped and nervous, chain-smoking while he could before the cameras started rolling.

Someone with a bullhorn called for places and Bob sat quickly, watching as Frank ground his smoke out on the bottom of his shoe and dropped it into the coffee can the production team had dug into the sand. Frank was strangely quiet as he let one of the PAs help him into the boat. It rocked gently in the surf, and Frank froze before turning quickly and dropping down into his assigned seat.

Bob wanted to ask Frank what was wrong, why he was tense and upset even though he had been in love with the video's concept since Gerard had pitched it to them. He wanted to lean forward and rest his hand on the back of Frank's neck, to soothe whatever was bothering him, but there were extras milling around them, settling into their seats and trying not to knock into anyone with their giant packs. He settled for focusing his senses on him as much as he dared to in a group this size, keeping track of his elevated respiration and the tiny beads of sweat gathering at his hairline.

"Okay, we are go for launch," the director said, balancing awkwardly in the motorboat next to them while clutching a bullhorn. "We're going to go out a little bit into the bay, shoot some footage on the boat, and circle back around before we do the amphibious landing scene. Just sit tight and don't rock the boat. No, really, I mean that," he added as some of the extras around him chuckled.

"Dude, this is awesome," Ray enthused as the boat chugged away from shore. Bob just grunted, distracted by the need to keep his senses focused on Frank. Frank was clutching a rosary, the beads clicking between his fingers. Bob was fairly sure he wasn't just staying in character, either.

The boat came to a halt at what the director assured them was "only about a half mile from shore." It looked quite a bit further to Bob, but then again, he had never really been fond of boats. Spending a couple of months on one crossing the Atlantic the first time pretty much put him off of them for good. And, frankly, the knarr had felt much sturdier than the vessel they were currently in. Bob pushed that thought away, though. There was no way the record company would have signed off on a video that would end in the watery deaths of the talent.

That thought was cold comfort when the boat shuddered and someone at the back of the boat said, "Oh, shit."

There was water rushing up around their ankles. Several people around him were yelling or swearing, but Bob could barely hear them over the sound of Frank's suddenly elevated heartbeat. Normally Frank's heart beat slowly enough that Bob could barely even hear it, so the sudden thunder of his racing heart was loud enough to almost deafen Bob.

"Shit, fuck," Gerard was swearing from the next bench over.

The water reached knee-high in a matter of seconds. There was a commotion at the back of the boat as they tried to get the ramp contraption to go up again. Frank was praying out loud, sounding as panicked as Bob had ever heard him.

"Everybody please stay calm!" the director yelled over his bullhorn. "We've had a slight malfunction of the--"

Bob could feel the moment that the boat started to tip. There was a bunch of yelling and screaming as the actors and crew figured out that the boat was going under.

Bob suddenly found himself treading water in the middle of a disoriented, shouting, screaming crowd. Somehow, he'd lost track of Frank's heartbeat in the confusion. Bob turned himself in a circle, searching frantically for him.

He absently noted that Brian and the rest of his band were treading water around him, but pushed all thought of them away once he realized they were safe and just a little panicked. He tried to focus in on Frank again, but the splashing and shouting and general chaos made it impossible. He squirmed out of his sodden backpack and let it sink into the water without him before swimming up to where Frank should have been.

"Hey," he said, grabbing the shoulder of the extra who had been next to Frank, "where'd Frank go?"

"I don't know, man, but this is bullshit. I'm so firing my agent."

Bob resisted dunking the shallow douchebag under the waves and let the current carry him a few feet away from the mass of flailing bodies so that he could try to focus on Frank again.

He couldn't hear Frank's heartbeat. Bob ruthlessly crushed his urge to panic mindlessly at that fact. "Okay, think, think," he muttered to himself. If he couldn't hear Frank above the water, then that left only one other option.

Bob took a couple of deep breaths and dove under the surface of the water. He stayed underwater as long as he could, listening desperately for the sound of Frank's heartbeat. Nothing.

He was _not_ going to panic. Bob surfaced long enough to take a couple more deep breaths, and dove as far down as he could go.

After a few minutes, just as Bob's lungs were starting to protest, he heard a faint, slow heartbeat from further below him. Bob dove a third time, ignoring the way that his lungs felt like they were about to burst, pushing himself deeper and deeper, until his outstretched hand touched a terrifyingly still body.

Dragging the body along with him, Bob swam desperately toward the surface of the water, starting to get lightheaded from the lack of oxygen. There were black sparkles at the edge of his vision by the time his head broke the surface. Bob dragged in a long, painful gasp of air.

The boat had apparently righted itself after dumping its inhabitants into the water. Bob struck out for it, towing Frank's limp body along with him. If it hadn't been for the fact that he could _hear_ Frank's faint heartbeat, he would have been totally panicking at how corpse-like Frank's body felt.

Nearly everyone else was back in the boat by the time he got back over there and he barely remembered to make sure Brian and Ray were the ones to haul Frank's body over the side. By the time he managed to get himself back into the boat, Frank was coughing up water and batting weakly at Ray and Brian's hands.

Bob dragged himself across the floor of the boat until he was next to Frank, just wanting to be closer to him, and was surprised when Frank flopped over into his lap as soon as he was done puking up seawater.

"If someone doesn't get me on dry land in the next five minutes, there is going to be bloodshed."

"Holy shit, Frank," Ray said. Gerard was hovering next to him wringing his hands, looking about half a second away from keeling over himself.

"Calm down, motherfuckers," Frank said hoarsely. He paused to cough some more water out of his lungs. "It's not like I can drown."

"Yeah, well, it's not like you can _swim_ , either," Brian pointed out.

Bob stared down at Frank, frowning. "You didn't tell me that you can't swim."

"Well, obviously I didn't expect to be in a floating deathtrap." Frank shivered and burrowed deeper into Bob's lap.

Bob hesitated for a second before wrapping his arm around Frank's shoulders and tugging him in even closer. "It is a sixty year old boat."

Frank made a grumpy noise. "I think I have seaweed in my shorts."

Mikey made a face. "Well, I'm not helping you get that out." The rest of them started giggling, punch-drunk with leftover adrenalin.

Brian went to the front of the boat to rip the director "several new assholes." The rest of the band settled quietly on the benches around Frank and Bob, giving them some privacy and shielding them a bit from the curious eyes of the extras.

The crew had apparently done whatever they needed to do to get the boat moving again without sinking. Under the roar of the engine, Bob murmured to Frank, "I thought you were dead, Frankie."

Frank pushed his face into the curve of Bob's neck and giggled before breaking out a truly terrible British accent, "I'm not dead yet."

Bob wanted to laugh, to brush it all aside because he did actually know that a vampire couldn't drown, but he was still raw from the panic. "Don't."

Frank froze for a second before melting into Bob and pulling his arm more securely around him and snuffling into his skin. "Okay."

There was something about Frank's acceptance of his concern that untied some of the knots Bob had tied himself in. He hauled Frank more fully into his lap and leaned back against the side of the boat to wait out the return trip to shore.

Of course, with the limited schedule and the tight budget, they couldn't just stop filming for the day just because the damn boat had nearly sunk or because the cast, crew, and band were soaked with salt water. Bob resigned himself to an endless day of shooting.

And chafing.

He was distracted, at least, because Frank kept giving him _looks_ all the rest of the day. Bob couldn't quite tell if they were fuck-me looks or what, and he didn't really trust his own perceptions in the matter. It was driving him crazy and fueling his need to lick Frank all over, so by the time they broke for dinner he was impatient to get away from the cameras and Frank before he did something he'd regret.

Finally, finally, the light started to go and the director cut them loose for the day. Bob yanked off the uncomfortable uniform in the makeshift dressing room, careful not to rip it. He hated the damn thing, but the costumer was tiny and fierce, and Bob was a little scared of her, truth be told. He was in enough trouble already for ditching his backpack into the ocean when he was looking for Frank.

He emerged from the dressing room, squinting against the brilliant sunset, to find Frank leaning against the wall outside. "Hey," Bob said cautiously.

Frank snorted. "Hey yourself."

Bob shuffled his feet in the thin layer of sand covering the asphalt of the parking lot. He wanted to corner Frank somewhere, strip him down, and make certain he was okay. Frank had done his job for the video without complaint, but Bob was worried about him getting sick again.

More than anything, though, he was worried about pushing Frank too hard and losing any of the ground he'd seemed to have gained today.

"Come on," Frank twitched his head back towards the beach and took a couple of steps before turning back towards Bob. "I convinced the crew to leave a car for us to get back."

Bob jogged a few steps to catch up, then followed Frank down the beach. He wasn't exactly sure where they were headed, but Frank seemed to have a specific destination in mind as he kicked through the piles of sand above the tide line.

The breeze off the water brought teasing hints of Frank's scent to him. Frank smelled like seawater, of course, but also something musky and good. Bob finally identified it -- he smelled truly happy for the first time in forever. Bob had no idea what was going on, but he couldn't stop smiling, with his mate at his side, not just alive and well but _happy_.

They walked for easily a half hour. Bob glanced back and realized that he could no longer see where they'd shot the battle scene. The beach was getting rockier, with cliffs coming up almost to the edge of the water. They reached a sign that warned "Private Beach - Trespassers Will Be Arrested" and Bob balked, reaching out to grab Frank's wrist to pull him to a halt.

"What?" Frank asked.

Bob pointed out the sign. "Seriously, dude, I have no wish to get arrested today."

Frank grinned. "No problem. I got Gerard to mix us up a little something." He pulled a length of green ribbon out of his pocket and held out his hand, saying, "Give me your wrist. Gee says that once it's tied to both of us, no one else will be able to see us."

Bob frowned at him doubtfully. "Are you sure that's gonna work? I seem to remember that the glamour he gave you at the Warped tour wrap party didn't work all that well..."

"It'll work. Seriously, he's so much more powerful since he sobered up, it's crazy. Trust me," he said when Bob continued to resist his attempts to tie the ribbon around his wrist. "It will work."

Bob relented at the calm assurance in his voice and let Frank knot the ratty green ribbon around his wrist. When Frank looped the ribbon around his own wrist, it blinked out of existence. Bob felt _something_ shimmer in the air around them, but he couldn't see anything different so he figured Gerard's mojo was working. Frank turned his hand to catch Bob's fingers in his own before trudging towards the jagged rocks near the shore and picking his way over them until they found a sheltered little cove.

"So," Frank said conversationally, settling himself onto a large, flat plane of rock. "We're both idiots, and possibly too stupid to live, is what I've decided." Bob tried to keep his expression calm and neutral, but something of the twisting hurt he felt must have shown on his face because Frank took one look at him and sighed. "I said _both_ of us are morons. I'm just as much to blame for this sad state of affairs as you are."

"Meaning what, exactly?" Bob asked. Hope was curling in his belly like a living thing at the way Frank was looking at him, and he had a feeling about where Frank was going with this, but he had to know for sure. Assuming shit had been biting him in the ass lately.

"I mean that I should have called you after the end of the first tour, and you should have _said something_ when I saw you again at Warped, instead of acting like it had never happened. We both should have been less stubborn and angry on Warped, because _damn_ , we could have been having a ridiculous amount of sex that whole time. And then after what happened at the end of Warped..."

"Yeah?" Bob asked, starting to hope that his heart wasn't about to get broken.

"I still don't know exactly what the fuck happened there, but it shouldn't have gone down like that. Because I don't know about you, but I was _miserable_ afterwards."

Bob thought about the fist-sized ball of unhappiness he'd been carrying around in his chest since he'd walked away from Frank at Warped and said, "Yeah."

Frank raised his eyebrows as if to say _yeah, and?_ and Bob realized he was waiting for an explanation for him pushing Frank away.

Bob's stomach was churning at the thought of laying himself out bare like this, but Frank deserved to know why Bob had been such a bastard to him. "So, um.  You may or may not have heard that Quinn and I had a thing for a while. It ended about a month before I met you."

Frank's eyes widened. "You and Quinn _Allman_?"

"Uh, yeah," Bob said, wincing. "It ended... poorly. Basically, he dumped me, and then he spent the next couple of years treating me like something he'd scraped off his shoe."

"But you kept working for The Used..." Frank said, a little line of confusion appearing between his eyebrows.

"For another year and a half, yeah," Bob said. "I liked working for The Used. I really like Bert and Jepha, even though they're insane motherfuckers, and I get along well with Branden too. And as long as I avoided Quinn, it wasn't... horrible."

Frank looked at him like he was insane. "You _lived on the same bus_ as Quinn."

Bob shrugged. "He wasn't a total bitch unless we were alone together. And I was able to avoid that pretty well. Anyway... that's part of why I was so weird when you were, y'know, hitting on me. 'Cause I figured if we ever did get together, you'd just get bored and move on, and I'd be completely screwed."

"I wouldn't do--" Frank started.

"Hang on, let me finish. There's something that I have to tell you, and if I don't tell you now, I'm probably going to lose my nerve again."

Frank made the "zipping his lips" motion. Bob took a deep breath, trying to figure out how to say what he needed to say. Even though he'd been planning on telling Frank how he felt before Frank got dosed, the thought of doing it right now sent a hot rush of blood to his face.

There really wasn't a suave way to tell someone your inner werewolf had decided he was your perfect mate.

"Right," Bob cleared his throat. "So, I don't know how much you know about werewolves, or real wolves for that matter –-"

"Assume I know nothing," Frank interrupted.

"Okay. There's this belief about wolves -- real wolves -- mating for life, but it's wrong. I mean, they form pairs, but aren't all that monogamous. If one of them dies or is kicked out of the pack for some reason, the remaining wolf can form another bond.

Werewolves would probably be the same if crazy supernatural mojo weren't involved."

"So that's not how it is for you?"

"That's the crazy part. Most of the time we're just like humans, forming couples if we choose to or just hooking up randomly, but sometimes, some weird magical mojo shit happens and..."

Frank raised his eyebrows. "And?" he prompted.

"Andwemateforlife," Bob said in a rush.

He could see the moment Frank figured out what Bob had just blurted out. Bob turned away, kicking at a loose rock, too scared to watch Frank either accept it or freak the fuck out.

After a few minutes, Frank still wasn't saying anything. Bob felt the flutter of hope in his belly turn into lead. He took a deep breath and prepared to cut his own beating heart out of his chest. "Listen, you don't have to feel obligated to do anything about it. It's just my stupid werewolf nature that's decided that you're my mate. You don't have to deal with it if you don't want to."

Bob didn't hear a sound before 140 pounds of vampire hit him square in the back. He staggered, trying not to fall over or drop Frank.

Clinging to Bob's back, Frank said directly into his ear, "You know, Bryar, sometimes you're kind of an idiot."

He was tempted to dump Frank in the sand -- fuck him sideways for being dismissive about this -- when the tone of his voice caught up to him. "I'm an idiot?"

Frank made a vague gesture before tucking his hand into the collar of Bob's shirt. "You can be excused, I guess, since most of our ways haven't been recorded."

"Your ways?"

"All the mystical secrets of the Creatures of the Night." Frank cackled at his own horrible Dracula accent for a second before resettling himself against Bob's back. "Remember when I accidentally got drugged and was all weird?"

"Don't forget chewing on my hair."

"Right, right, can't forget that. Anyway," Frank's eyeroll was audible in his voice. "We, vampires, um, have a thing."

Bob waited, but Frank didn't seem inclined to continue. "A thing?"

"Uh, yeah." Frank thudded his forehead against Bob's shoulder and said, muffled by Bob's t-shirt, "Sometimes we have this thing where we get all crazy and stalkery about one specific person. We call it being bonded. I can keep it under control most of the time, but when I'm drunk or y'know, accidentally drugged, I lose control of my impulses, and, well, it's crazy stalker time!" He said the last bit in a mock announcer's voice, then slid off of Bob's back.

Bob turned around to see Frank lighting a cigarette, fiddling with his Zippo nervously. Frank coughed and said, "So, now you know my creepy secret. Uh, sorry for the stalking."

Bob shook his head, laughing to himself. "Are you shitting me? Seriously, we're _both_ supernaturally bonded to each other? How the hell is this my life?"

"I think a better question is, why aren't we having crazy sex right now?"

Offhand, Bob could think of a half a dozen smart ass remarks and at least that many actual reasons why they shouldn't be having sex right then, but he really didn't want to wait any longer. "That is a damn good question."

Frank choked on his lungful of smoke when Bob unzipped his own hoodie and hauled it, his t-shirt, his long sleeved shirt, and his undershirt over his head and dropped them in a pile on one of the cleaner rocks. He kicked out of his shoes and had his hand on his fly before stopping and raising his eyebrows at Frank.

Frank tossed his cigarette over the outcropping and started pulling at his own clothes. Even though he got a late start, Frank was naked before Bob even finished undoing his fly. Then Frank's hands were on him, brushing over his shoulders and pressing against the insides of his elbows.

"Frankie, wait," Bob said breathlessly as Frank's hands went for his open fly. He grabbed Frank's wrists and pulled his hands away. "I need to ask you something."

"Are you serious?" Frank asked, pausing in his exploration of the hollow of Bob's throat. "We could be naked and rolling around on the ground _right now_."

"How long does vampire bonding last?" Maybe he'd be happier not knowing when Frank's fixation on him would end, but Bob had always been of the opinion that it was better to know than to live in blissful ignorance.

Frank pulled away a bit, so that he could meet Bob's eyes. His dark eyes serious, Frank said, "The only way it ends is if the other partner dies. And considering that you're a werewolf and essentially immortal, that means... you're stuck with me forever. Hopefully you're not going to get sick of me, because that would be kind of awkward."

His heart was about to burst with sheer happiness. Bob grinned, wrapping his arms around Frank. Burying his nose in Frank's hair, he breathed in his mate's scent and said hoarsely, "Forever. Yeah, that sounds pretty good to me."

Frank held him just as tightly for a few seconds before biting sharply at his chest. "That's enough of this mushy crap."

He pushed his hands into Bob's cropped hair and pulled him down into a kiss. This time when Frank went for his fly, Bob let him. He kicked out of the loose jeans as they puddled around his ankles and let Frank drag him down to the ground.

Bob hoped one of these days they'd make it to an actual bed.

Frank started nibbling at Bob's wrist, following the vein to the inside of his elbow and biting at the sensitive skin there. Bob slid his fingers through Frank's fine hair and tugged him upward to kiss him. Frank settled onto his chest with a satisfied-sounding noise, bracing himself on his hands as he stabbed into Bob's mouth with his tongue.

Bob slid his hands down Frank's back, grabbing onto his ass and squeezing, grinding Frank's cock down against him. Frank groaned, sucking on Bob's tongue.

Bob rolled them over, grabbing Frank's wrists and holding them over his head. Frank grinned up at him. "It's cute that you think you're in charge here."

Bob raised an eyebrow. "What makes you so sure that I'm not?"

Frank easily flipped them again, lacing his fingers with Bob's and holding his hands down against the still-warm sand. He leaned forward, whispering, "Because of what you look like when I do this," and nudged Bob's head to the side, biting down on his throat _hard_ without breaking the skin.

Bob's eyes rolled up in his head, and he groaned loudly enough that they might have been in danger of being discovered if it weren't for Gerard's illusion spell.

Frank rubbed against him, squirming until he was between Bob's legs and pressed up against him. He licked over the bite mark on his neck, squeezing Bob's fingers. "I think maybe I should be worried about this kink we seem to be developing for doing it outside."

Bob wanted to answer, he really did, but he was too busy reveling in the feeling of Frank's skin against his. Frank hadn't even managed to get his pants off the first time they'd done this and Bob was torn between wanting his hands free to touch all of that tattooed skin and giving in to the thoughtless submission of having his hands pinned.

Frank seemed to understand his indecision because he just tightened his grip on Bob's fingers and rutted against him a little faster. It was just skin on skin, an act barely removed from the kind of over-the-clothes fumbling pre-teens got up to these days, but that alone was enough to make Bob drunk with pleasure.

It didn't matter that the ground was hard and smelled a little off from all the pollution along the coast, or that his shoulder blades and the small of his back were going to end up rubbed raw from the sand and grit under him. All that mattered was Frank and the fucking supernova building under Bob's skin.

He wrapped his leg around one of Frank's and followed the slowly accelerating rhythm as easily as he did on stage. His hips moved in counterpoint to Frank's, ratcheting up the tension and overwhelming him with sensation. Soft lips pressed against his neck, the point of his jaw, the beginnings of stubble on his cheek, and he turned his head to catch Frank's mouth with his own.

"I want to fuck you," Frank panted against his mouth.

"Mmm yeah, but -- no lube –"

Frank kissed him, said, "Hold that thought," and stretched out to snag a small bottle from the pocket of his discarded jeans.

"Oh, thank god," Bob said, because he knew himself well enough to know that he would have let Frank do him without lube -- _again_ \-- and then regretted it for a few days of serious discomfort.

"No, thank Gee. He's the one who gave me the bottle," Frank said, popping the lid of the bottle and slicking his fingers up.

"That's kind of a disturbing thought. I don't want to contemplate Gerard knowing I'm going to have sex before I do -- oh god," Bob groaned, throwing his head back. Frank had good, strong hands, guitarist's hands, and he knew what to do with them.

"He does seem a little overly invested in our sex life," Frank said, adding a twist and finger-spread that was making Bob's eyes roll up in his head. "I think Gee seriously just needs to get laid."

"Enough talking," Bob managed, pulling Frank down into a kiss.

Bob could feel Frank smiling against his mouth. For once, he was not a contrary bastard, cutting out the running commentary and instead concentrating on driving Bob out of his mind with his talented fingers. Bob was writhing, eyes closed, totally lost to the sensation of Frank hitting his sweet spot over and over.

"Ready?" Frank asked, barely pausing in kissing him.

"Yes, yes, please," Bob moaned.

Frank shifted around, getting his hands under Bob and tipping his hips up before pushing into him with a groan. Bob shuddered and forced himself to stillness, letting Frank work his cock into him with tiny thrusts of his hips instead of rushing the process.

Once Frank was all the way in and his balls were a soft weight against Bob's ass, he dropped his head down to rest on Bob's collarbone. "Jesus, Bob."

Bob wanted to answer, but the best he could manage was a quiet little noise he refused to believe was any sort of whimper. Whatever the sound was, it made Frank jerk and grind his hips against Bob, as if he was trying to work his way even deeper into him.

Frank started a slow rhythm, just barely pulling away before pushing back in. He mouthed his way along Bob's collarbone, kissing and biting lightly. Bob clutched at the strong muscles of his back, raking his blunt nails down the valley of his spine.

Frank's rhythm started getting faster, his strokes harder. Bob hiked his legs higher around Frank's waist, wanting more. "More," he gasped.

Frank lifted his head from Bob's chest and grinned at him, his fangs showing slightly under his upper lip. He slid an arm under one of Bob's legs and pushed it back toward Bob's chest. The shift in angle made both of them moan.

Frank leaned up for a kiss and Bob craned his neck forward to meet him. He pushed his tongue past Frank's, careful around his sharp incisors even though he was tempted to run his tongue over the razor edge. He bit at Frank's bottom lip as he let his head drop back to the ground.

Frank made a wanting noise and planted his hand next to Bob's shoulder, snapping his hips just that much harder. "Are you close?"

As an answer, Bob shoved his hand between them and started to jerk himself off. The dry pull of his hand burned a little, but that just added to the firestorm of sensation building in the pit of Bob's stomach. He ran his palm over the head of his dick, collecting some of the wetness there to ease his strokes a little.

Frank pulled back just enough so he could watch Bob touch himself. Bob twisted his wrist around the shaft of his cock and Frank said completely calmly, "Holy fuck, Bob," and nearly convulsed as he came.

Bob's vision whited out as he came. He could hear himself crying out, but it was oddly muffled and distant.

It was bizarre, as if he was having an actual out-of-body experience. He simultaneously felt himself coming and saw, from outside of his body, his deep green aura mixing with Frank's silver-grey aura, the two colors swirling together until they exploded like fireworks.

"Holy shit. They're gonna see that from all the way in L.A.," Bob gasped.

Frank's eyes opened. His irises glowing silver, Frank grinned smugly and said, "Yeah." Still inside of him, Frank leaned forward, nuzzling against Bob's throat, and whispered, "By the way, I'm totally stupid in love with you. I thought you should know."

Bob threaded his fingers through the velvety hair at the back of Frank's neck, kissing the sweaty skin of his temple and holding him close to the pulse thundering in his neck. "Me too, Frank. God, so much."

Frank opened his mouth and licked delicately before sucking a bruise to the surface. He hummed as he examined the reddened patch of skin. "Mine."

Bob rolled his eyes, trying not to grin like an idiot from the happiness that was bubbling up inside him. He wanted to shout his pleasure to the skies, but managed to keep it low key, just saying, "Yeah."

Frank slipped out of him with a groan and curled up on top of him.  "We should probably get back."

"Mmmm," Bob hummed, wrapping his arms around his mate. Frank sighed contentedly, tucking his head under Bob's chin. Rubbing his cheek against Frank's soft hair, Bob murmured, "In a little while. We've got time."

"All the time in the world," Frank said, sounding about two seconds away from falling asleep.

"Yeah," Bob whispered, holding his mate in his arms and looking up at the stars. "Forever."

***end***

**Author's Note:**

> written for bandombigbang


End file.
